THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES      ' 

GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


if' 


<** 


THE  MOST  FOOLISH 
OF  ALL  THINGS 

BY 

H.  ANTHONY 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


rt 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MOST  FOOLISH  OF  ALL  THINGS      .     .  9 

THE  THREE  VISITORS n 

THE  SECRET  OF  BEAUTY 13 

SURRENDER 15 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  GRACES 17 

WHEN  POVERTY  COMES  IN  AT  THE  DOOR     .  19 

WHICH? 21 

THE  WANDERER 23 

THE  GREAT  WRITER 26 

PARADOX 28 

THE  WHINER 30 

THE  "STONE  MASON 32 

FAILURE        34 

THE  ANGEL  OF  GOOD  GIFTS 36 

ILLUSION 38 

A  RIDDLE 40 

A  PROBLEM 43 

GOOD  COUNSEL 45 

THE  TRAIN  OF  IGNORANCE 47 

THE   PEOPLE 50 

MISTS 53 

THE  SUBTLE  MAN 55 

CHAINS 57 

INTEREST 59 


Contents 

PAGE 

VERITY 62 

A  KING  AMONG  MEN 65 

REFLECTION        68 

TRAGEDY 7° 

THE  WAY  TO  FORGET 73 

THE  REMEDY 75 

THE  COMMONPLACE 77 

THE  SEARCH 79 

THE  BIRTH-MARK 81 

THE  ABSURDEST  OF  ALL  THINGS  ....     83 

JUSTICE 85 

THE  BUSY  IMP -87 

THE  SON  OF  MAN 90 

THE  POOR  PREACHER 93 

SECRETS 95 

THE  SINNERS 97 

GOD'S  LAW 99 

BARE  GIFTS 102 

THE  STINGY  MAN 104 

WHY? 107 

Nor  IN  So  MANY  WORDS 1 10 

A  BIRTH 112 

THE  TOWERS 115 

BLIND 117 

REPUTATION 119 

GLADNESS  AND  SORROW 121 

MUTATION 123 

AN  INSTANCE 125 

THE  TREASURE 127 


Contents 

PAGE 
THE  DECEITFUL  DOLLAR 129 

SEX 132 

LIMITATION 134 

MALE  AND  FEMALE 136 

CONSOLATION 139 

QUITE  So 141 

THE  EGG  OF  DREAMS 143 

INTROSPECTION         145 

BODY 147 

THE  ARTIST 149 

THE  QUEER  COUNTRY 151 

YES 153 

CONDESCENSION 155 

A  FABLE 157 

THE  GREATEST  GIFT 159 

A  HELLISH  DREAM 161 

THE  LYING  MASTER 163 

AN  ENEMY 165 

THE  LAST  VISITOR 167 

IN  ME 169 

THE  PATIENT  AND  FAITHFUL      .     .     .     .171 


THE  MOST  FOOLISH 
OF  ALL  THINGS 


THE  MOST  FOOLISH 
OF  ALL  THINGS 

THE  MOST  FOOLISH  OF  ALL  THINGS 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  great  ruler  caused  to  be 
sought  out  the  wisest  man  in  all  the  world  to 
come  and  instruct  his  subjects.  The  sage  was  very 
old,  and  his  beard  swept  the  ground  as  he  sat  in 
the  chair  of  honor.  He  had  visited  every  country, 
travelling  both  by  sea  and  by  land,  and  had  con 
versed  with  multitudes  of  men  and  women,  and 
read  all  books. 

"  And  what  will  be  the  first  lesson  that  thou  wilt 
teach,  O  sage?  "  asked  the  ruler. 

"  I  know  not  if  I  am  right,"  replied  the  wise 
man,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  best  to  teach  thy  subjects 
first  what  is  the  most  foolish  of  all  things,  so  that 
they  may  know  and  avoid  it." 

And  the  ruler  said,  "  So  be  it." 

Then  the  ruler  caused  many  of  his  subjects  to 
assemble  in  the  courtyard  of  his  palace  before  the 
sage.  And  to  them  the  wise  man  propounded  the 
question,  "  What  is  the  most  foolish  of  all  things?  " 

First  there  rose  up  the  prime  minister  and  an 
swered,  "  The  most  foolish  of  all  things  is  to  tell 
the  truth  to  one's  enemies." 

But  the  sage  shook  his  head  in  negation. 

Then  arose  a  brilliant  and  beautifully  attired 
9 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

court-lady.  She  said,  "  O  sage,  the  most  foolish 
of  all  things  is  the  horrid  idea  that  all  men  are 
equal." 

"  Nay,  great  madam,  thou  hast  not  truly  spoken," 
replied  the  sage. 

The  next  to  answer  was  a  priest  of  high  degree 
and  great  power,  and  he  spoke  as  one  thereto  ac 
customed.  "  The  most  foolish  of  all  things  is  to 
doubt  and  rebel  against  the  teachings  of  our  most 
holy  church.  Hell  awaits  all  schismatics  and  heret 
ics.  And  here  on  earth  they  should  be  — 

But  the  sage  stopped  him,  lest  he  preach  a  ser 
mon.  "  Nay,  most  august  bishop,  thou  art  mis 
taken." 

Then  a  very  rich  man  stood  up.  "  O  sage,"  he 
said,  "  the  most  foolish  of  all  things  is  to  neglect 
to  lay  up  treasure  against  the  evil  days  of  old  age." 

"  Nay,  not  the  most  foolish,"  answered  the  sage. 

Next  a  famous  teacher,  the  head  of  a  great  uni 
versity,  took  the  word.  "  I  know,"  said  he,  "  that 
the  most  foolish  of  all  things  is  to  expect  wisdom 
from  the  unlettered." 

"  Nay,  not  that,"  replied  the  wise  old  man. 

But  then  the  ruler  himself  became  impatient  and 
somewhat  angry.  So  he  demanded  with  petulance, 
"What,  then,  is  the  most  foolish  of  all  things? 
Let's  have  it  and  be  done  with  it." 

"  O  ruler,"  answered  the  sage,  "  the  most  foolish 
of  all  things  is  also  the  most  common,  and  it  is 
scorn,  scorn  for  one's  human  fellows." 

But  with  one  voice  they  rejected  the  sage's  teach 
ings,  and  straightway  drove  him  from  the  chair  of 
honor. 


10 


The  Three  Visitors 


THE  THREE  VISITORS 

A  POOR  poet  sat  in  his  garret  and  wove  into 
melody  the  words  and  dreams  that  God  gave 
him.  And  as  he  sat,  there  came  a  knock  on  his 
door.  He  rose  and  gave  entrance  to  his  visitor. 

"  I  am  Riches,"  said  his  guest,  "  and  I  have  come 
to  give  you  a  sight  of  me.  Do  you  not  see  that 
I  am  desirable?  Yet  you  have  not  sought  me 
out." 

"  I  have  seen  you  in  my  dreams,"  replied  the 
poet,  "  and  then  there  was,  as  now,  blood  on  your 
hands." 

"  Oh,  your  vision  is  warped,"  said  the  visitor, 
"  there  is  no  blood  on  my  hands,  those  are  but 
rubies  of  great  price.  I  have  murdered  no  one." 

"  Yet,  I  see  millions  whom  you  have  murdered," 
said  the  poet,  "  and  there  are  lies  in  your  mouth. 
You  promise  happiness,  and  you  can  not  give  it.  I 
fain  would  be  courteous,  but  I  must  ask  you  to 
leave  me." 

And  Riches  departed  in  great  anger,  never  more 
to  visit  the  poet. 

But  hardly  was  the  poet  seated  again  when  he 
must  rise  to  admit  another  stranger. 

"  I  am  Fame,"  said  this  visitor,  "  and  I  come  to 
abide  with  you  forever." 

"  Ah,  but  I  think  I  know  the  price  I  must  pay 
for  your  company,"  said  the  poet. 

"  And  what,  pray,  think  you  ?  "  asked  Fame. 

"  I  must  pay  in  envy  from  my  friends  and  lying 
ii 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

scandal  from  my  enemies.  And  ever  will  you  be  on 
tiptoe  to  take  flight  from  me,"  said  the  poet. 

"  You  have  spoken  truly,"  Fame  replied,  "  but 
am  I  not  worth  that  price  ?  " 

"  Nay,  verily,"  said  the  poet,  "  one  friend  doth 
outweigh  all  that  Fame  can  give,  and  peace  of 
mind  is  above  any  price." 

"  Adieu,  then,"  said  Fame,  "  I  shall  not  come 
again." 

And  soon  thereafter  came  a  third  visitor,  and 
called  to  the  poet  to  open.  And,  behold,  she  was 
a  being  of  great  comeliness,  and  radiant. 

"  I  know  you,"  said  the  poet,  when  his  eyes  fell 
on  her,  and  I  know  your  sisters.  They  are  Truth 
and  Beauty.  Oh,  will  you  deign  to  visit  me?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  dwell  with  you,  if  you  will  have 
me,"  said  the  radiant  guest. 

"  Oh,  happy,  happy  me ! "  cried  the  poet. 
"  What  can  I  have  done  to  deserve  so  great  happi 
ness,  poor,  humble  me!  " 

"  You  have  sung  nobly  and  truly,  and  that  is 
enough  to  deserve  me." 

And  the  poet  rejoiced  beyond  measure,  because 
Love  had  come  to  him. 


12 


The  Secret  of  Beauty 


ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  poet  who 
dreamed  much  on  the  secret  of  beauty,  and 
wondered  what  it  was  and  wherein  it  lay.  He 
looked  at  the  sunset,  and  it  was  beautiful,  the 
flowers  by  the  roadside,  and  they  were  beautiful, 
as  were  the  songs  of  women,  and  flashing  gems, 
and  the  eyes  of  children,  and  poems,  and  pictures. 
He  loved  them  all.  But  what  was  it  that  all  had 
in  common  ?  Was  it  in  sound  or  form  or  color,  and 
in  that  only?  Or  was  it  because  he  loved  them? 

And,  behold,  he  saw  coming  a  fond  pair  of  lovers. 
And  he  said,  "  Love  goes  with  beauty." 

But  the  pair  drew  still  nearer,  and  he  saw  they 
were  burned  by  the  sun  and  thin  from  toil  or 
privation.  Oh,  care  had  slept  with  them,  and  they 
were  graven  by  pain  and  by  sorrow.  And  yet 
beauty  was  in  them. 

Rapt  in  thought,  he  sat  musing,  and  lo!  on  his 
motionless  hand  there  settled  a  moth  all  damasked 
with  colors.  "  And  why  is  it  damasked  with 
colors?  —  For  its  day  of  love?  —  Is  that  why  it 
is  damasked  with  colors?  " 

So  thinking,  his  glance  fell  on  the  ground  at  his 
feet,  and  there  in  writhing  embrace  lay  two  naked 
worms.  "  Do  they  love  ?  Oh,  could  they  love 
like  that  moth  that  is  damasked  with  colors? 
Those  two  naked  worms,  slimy,  disgusting?  Does 
love  go  with  beauty  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  eyes.  There  floated  above  him 
13 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

great  galleons  of  clouds  wafted  by  soft  evening 
breezes  across  the  expanse  of  the  heavens.  And 
the  flames  of  the  sunset  flared  on  their  canvas. 
"  Beauty  is  there,  but  no  love.  Love  goes  not  with 
beauty.  Clouds  can  love  nothing.  Yet  I  love 
them,  they  are  radiant  with  beauty.  But  not  the 
dull  ox,  which  yonder  is  plodding  —  he  feels  no 
love  for  the  clouds,  but  likewise  he  sees  not  their 
beauty  —  or  does  he?  Perhaps  to  one  naked  worm 
another  even  so  naked  and  slimy  is  radiant  with 
beauty.  Or  perhaps  a  moth,  however  damasked 
with  colors,  hath  no  beauty  for  the  moth  mating 
with  it.  Who  knows? 

"  I  see  some  beauty,  perhaps  more  than  my  neigh 
bor.  But  he,  he  sees  a  beauty  in  his  ugly  squat 
wife.  Well,  let  him.  I  thank  God  that  he  does. 
But  I  am  blind  to  it.  Do  I  thank  God  that  I  am? 
Should  I  thank  God  for  a  blindness?  —  I  don't 
know. —  But  there  must  be  a  beauty  in  all  things 
for  the  eye  that  can  see  it  or  the  soul  that  can  feel 
it,  or  what  was  God  about  when  he  made  them? 

"  You  know,  I  believe  that  beauty  makes  love 
wake  up. —  That  sounds  good,  but  it  is  shallow, 
for  there  are  the  worms  and  my  neighbor's  wife. 

"  Oh,  the  likelihood  is  that  love  has  nothing  to 
do  with  beauty,  and  beauty  nothing  to  do  with 
love.  Where  there  is  sex,  there  may  be  only  lust  — 
and  lust  is  ugly  —  the  naked  worm  again,  slimy 
and  disgusting.  But  that  thought  too  is  ugly,  and 
I  know  it  is  not  true.  Certainly  every  other  sort 
of  love  except  sexual  love  is  beautiful  —  say  a  pa 
triot's  love,  or  a  saint's,  or  a  martyr's,  or  a  mother's. 

"  You  know,  I  am  going  home  to  pray  a  while." 


Surrender 


SURRENDER 

ONCE  an  old  man  walked  on  the  highway,  and 
thought  of  the  days  of  his  youth,  for  the  high 
way  led  to  the  place  of  his  humble  beginnings.  And 
though  his  body  was  too  old  and  too  feeble  to 
traverse  the  distance,  his  mind  ran  on  ahead  till  it 
reached  the  end  of  the  road,  where  lay  the  old 
farmstead  in  ruins.  And  the  mind  busied  itself 
with  fond  recollections.  It  dwelt  there  a  while 
recalling  father  and  mother,  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  for  a  moment  was  cheered,  but,  then,  saddened, 
it  returned  to  the  old  man  shuffling  and  stumbling 
along  the  highway. 

And  as  it  entered  again  into  the  old  feeble  body, 
the  bald  old  doddering  head,  it  said  to  itself,  "  I 
am  tired  of  this  tenement.  It  is  quite  worn  out. 
It  is  a  burden  that  I  no  longer  will  carry.  It  is 
the  shell  of  a  tortoise.  I  will  leave  it,  leave  it 
forever,  and  go  seek  the  abode  of  my  early  com 
panions,  find  where  they  have  gone  and  embrace 
them,  drink  in  with  my  eyes  their  glances  of  love, 
and  on  my  lips  receive  their  fond  kisses." 

But  the  body  found  a  voice  for  itself  and  replied, 
"  No,  no,  don't  leave  me.  I  shall  rot  here  without 
you." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  answered  the  mind.  "  You 
are  worn  out  and  quite  useless." 

"  But  listen,"  said  the  body,  "  you  will  need  my 
arms  to  embrace  with,  my  eyes  to  drink  in  glances  of 
love,  my  lips  to  receive  any  fond  kisses.  What 
15 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

will  you  do  without  them?  Ha,  you  don't  know. 
And  that's  your  sole  business  —  to  know.  You  are 
the  feeble  thing.  You  can  do  nothing  without  me. 
You  never  have  done  anything  without  me.  You 
would  have  been  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind,  as  unfeel 
ing  as  a  stone,  without  me.  And  such  may  be  your 
condition  after  you  leave  me.  Who  knows  ?  — 
You  don't,  that  is  plain." 

"  Oh,  but  I  believe  I  shall  be  free  to  come  and 
go,  and  take  joy  without  hindrance." 

"  You  believe,  yes,  you  believe,  but  how  often, 
I  ask  you  how  often,  have  you  been  mistaken? 
How  many  beliefs  that  you  have  cherished  have 
proved  vain  and  futile?  Ah,  it  is  better  that  you 
should  stay  with  me  —  safer,  more  certain.  Oh, 
it  is  far  better." 

And  the  mind  was  bewildered,  filled  with  doubt. 
It  might  be  that  death  was  also  for  it,  or  something 
far  worse  than  death  would  be  for  the  body.  Oh, 
it  might  be  that  the  voice  of  the  body  was  true. 
Who  could  say?  Who  could  tell? 

So  the  mind  clung  to  the  body,  the  coward  mind 
clung  to  the  old,  useless,  wornout  body. 


16 


The  Home  of  the  Graces 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  GRACES 

ONCE  Faith,  Love,  and  Hope  set  out  to  find 
a  human  heart  in  which  they  could  dwell. 
And  they  chose  first  a  young  woman.  She  became 
so  attractive  that  she  had  suitors  innumerable,  and 
she  married  the  richest.  But  then  Vanity  entered 
her  heart  and  waxed  so  great  that  it  pressed  out 
Faith,  Love,  and  Hope,  leaving  no  room  for  them 
to  live,  much  less  to  act.  And  Faith,  Love,  and 
Hope  in  human  hearts  must  ever  be  acting,  or  they 
will  die. 

So  the  Three  fled  before  death,  and  crept  for 
shelter  into  the  heart  of  a  man  who  wrote  poems. 
And  straight  his  songs  found  their  way  to  the 
souls  of  his  neighbors.  And  all  of  the  people  vied 
with  each  other  in  heaping  praises  upon  him.  Once 
more  their  old  enemy  intruded  itself  into  the 
dwelling  place  of  Faith,  Love,  and  Hope.  Vanity 
came  into  the  heart  of  the  poet,  and  again  the 
graces  departed  to  seek  some  other  lodging. 

So  Hope  said,  "Where  shall  we  go?" 

And  Faith  said,  "  Yes,  indeed,  whither?  Hu 
manity  we  can  not  forsake,  or  its  plight  will  be 
pitiable." 

"  And  wherever  we  go,"  said  Love,  "  Vanity 
comes  to  destroy  us,  and  grows  and  grows  until 
there  is  no  room  left  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hope,  "  I  think  we  must  hide  in  a 
place  that  Vanity  can  not  find,  or  finding,  would 
starve  for  lack  of  a  welcome." 
17 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  But,"  said  Love,  "  it  must  not  be  a  place  where 
we  shall  be  quite  hidden  —  not  that." 

"  No,"  said  Faith,  "  not  that." 

"  Ah,"  said  Love,  "  I  have  it.     Come  with  me." 

And  Love  took  the  hands  of  Faith  and  of  Hope, 
and  led  them  to  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  was  the 
mother  of  sons  and  of  daughters.  They  nestled 
close  in  the  heart  of  this  woman. 

"  But  will  any  one  see  us  here?  "  asked  Faith. 

"  Yes,  they  will  see  us,"  Love  answered. 

"Who  will  see  us?"  asked  Hope. 

"  The  sons  and  the  daughters,  they  will  see  us," 
said  Love.  "  They  know  they  have  but  to  look 
into  the  heart  of  their  mother  to  find  the  perma 
nent  place  of  our  dwelling." 

"And  Vanity,  will  it  intrude?"  asked  Faith. 

"  No,  it  will  not  intrude,"  said  Love,  "  for  her 
pride  is  centered  not  in  herself,  but  in  her  sons 
and  her  daughters." 

So  Love  and  Faith  and  Hope  thanked  their 
Creator  for  the  refuge  they  found  in  the  heart  of 
a  mother,  and  abode  there  forever. 


18 


When  Poverty  Comes  in  at  the  Door 


WHEN  POVERTY  COMES  IN  AT  THE 
DOOR 

LOVE  lived  in  a  cottage.  There  were  honey 
suckles  and  roses  all  around  and  about  the  cot 
tage,  and  Love  looked  on  them  through  muslin  cur 
tains,  diaphanous  and  shimmering.  Love  was  happy 
and  crooned  all  the  day  long,  humming  the  old 
sweet  songs,  and  rejoicing  in  their  fruition. 

The  pansies  in  the  yard  looked  up  in  the  early 
spring  time,  and  smiled  in  Love's  face.  And  daisies, 
verbenas,  and  phlox,  and  petunias  came  in  their 
season.  And  Love  looked  on  them  all,  and  was 
more  happy  than  ever. 

The  spring  bloomed  and  passed,  and  then  the  hot 
summer  glowed,  but  scorched  not  Love's  happiness. 
For  there  were  the  dahlias  and  lilies,  and  the  daisies 
still  lingered.  And  Love  grew  stronger  and 
ripened,  and  joyed  in  the  heat  of  the  summer.  Life 
seemed  a  dream  from  a  beauteous  Italian  garden 
or  a  perfume  from  an  oasis  of  Araby. 

Then  came  the  autumn,  and  brought  with  it 
golden-rod,  chrysanthemums,  tube-roses,  a  wealth 
and  riot  of  sweetness  and  color.  And  Love  smiled 
with  content  in  the  hazy  Indian  summer,  and  dim 
pled  with  pleasure  in  the  plenteous  abundance  of 
October.  No  shadow  of  sorrow,  no  hint  of  priva 
tion  dimmed  even  the  surface  of  Love's  gladness. 

But  alas!  with  the  winter  came  frost,  ice,  sleet, 
and  a  great  coldness.  All  of  the  flowers  in  Love's 
garden  were  frozen.  Their  bare,  empty  stalks  were 
19 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

blown  here  and  yonder  by  the  cruel  winds  from 
drear  northern  regions.  The  fruitful  earth  was 
locked  up,  and  all  of  its  brightness  and  plenty  had 
vanished.  And  there  came  into  Love's  cottage  a 
miserable  stranger,  cold  and  forbidding,  merciless, 
unfeeling. 

This  horrible  stranger  thrust  his  fell  visage  into 
Love's  cottage,  stalked  in  to  take  possession  as  if 
he  were  the  owner.  Love  looked  at  him  aghast, 
shrank  back,  then  knew  him. 

"  Oh,"  said  Love,  "  I  can  not  dwell  with  him. 
Oh,  he  will  kill  me.  He  is  so  cruel.  I  know  I 
can  not  dwell  with  him !  " 

And  Love,  shrieking,  fled  —  abandoned  the  cot 
tage,  went  out  into  the  merciless  winter.  And  died, 
was  frozen  on  the  graves  of  the  flowers. 

And  next  year  in  the  desert  of  the  garden  there 
was  no  perfume  or  color,  but  only  a  whispering 
sound  like  the  sibilant  hissing  of  serpents. 


20 


Which 


WHICH? 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who  had 
suffered  many  misfortunes,  but  nevertheless 
was  serene,  seeming  to  have  an  inward  source  of 
content.  He  had  been  wealthy,  but  had  lost  most 
of  his  money,  and,  by  consequence,  most  of  his 
friends.  He  had  been  falsely  accused  to  the  great 
detriment  of  his  reputation.  And  his  health,  from 
being  robust,  had  become  frail  and  uncertain. 

The  man's  serenity  became  a  matter  of  common 
speculation  and  gossip  in  the  whole  neighborhood. 
Some  said  that  he  was  too  lazy  and  indifferent  to 
worry.  Others  that  he  was  so  hardened  as  to  be 
insensible  to  ordinary  afflictions.  Others  that  he 
was  too  proud  to  show  his  suffering.  And  still 
others  that  he  must  be  very  religious,  and  in  that 
find  his  comfort. 

At  length,  a  busybody,  overcome  with  curiosity, 
went  to  see  him,  and  inquired  of  him,  "  Are  you 
very  religious  ?  " 

"  No,  not  specially,"  said  the  man. 

"  Well,  are  you  too  proud  to  show  any 
suffering?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  "  I  do  not  think  I  am 
proud.  I  believe  myself  humble,  although  none  of 
us  can  be  sure  that  pride  has  been  quite  cast  from 
his  heart." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  had  so  many  troubles  that 
you  have  become  insensible  to  ordinary  afflictions?  " 
said  the  busybody. 

21 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  Oh,  no,  I  haven't,"  said  the  man,  "  I  feel 
keenly  the  loss  of  money,  friends,  and  reputation. 
Who  wouldn't?" 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  busybody,  "  you  must  be 
just  lazy  and  indifferent." 

But  at  last  the  man,  becoming  indignant  at  this 
catechism,  said,  "  Why  do  you  come  putting  so 
many  questions?  By  what  right  do  you  subject  me 
to  annoying  impertinence?" 

'  The  whole  community  has  been  talking  about 
you,"  said  the  busybody,  "  and  has  been  wondering 
why  you  seem  so  serene,  so  undisturbed  by  your 
flood  of  misfortune." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  man,  "  Indeed !  "  tempted 
at  first  not  to  give  any  relevant  answer.  But 
reflecting  that  the  feeling  was  petty,  he  said, 
"  Doubtless,  others  may  have  better  reasons  for 
whatever  serenity  they  muster,  whatever  tran 
quillity  under  misfortune.  At  times,  indeed,  I 
think  mine  is  the  poorest  of  all  reasons,  but,  thank 
God,  it  suffices." 

The  busybody  fidgeted  about,  "  What  is  it  ? 
What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  with  impatience. 

"  It  simply  is  this,"  said  the  man,  "  I  know 
there  is  a  cure  for  all  earthly  ills,  and  when  I 
choose  I  have  the  courage  to  take  it.  But  as  yet 
there  are  still  those  who  love  me." 

"  Tell  me  that  cure.  Tell  it  me  quickly,"  said 
the  busybody. 

"  I  will,"  said  the  man,  "  it  is  Death." 

But  a  lone  old  man,  the  oldest  among  all  of  the 
neighbors,  when  he  heard  the  man's  saying,  de 
clared,  "  The  man  is  mistaken.  His  cure  really 
is,  that  as  yet  there  are  still  those  who  love  him." 

22 


The  Wanderer 


THE  WANDERER 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  of  an 
honest  spirit  who  dwelt  in  a  country  whereof 
all  of  the  people  worshiped  a  god.  But  the  man 
of  an  honest  spirit  would  not  worship  him.  He 
did  not  inveigh  against  this  god  nor  against  the 
worshipers.  But  he  withheld  himself  and  would 
not  bow  down.  So  the  people  of  the  country  began 
to  look  upon  him  as  peculiar  and  stubborn,  and 
they  regarded  him  askance,  as  if  he  were  evil. 

But  among  these  people  were  some  who  were 
kindly  disposed,  and  they  came  to  the  man  of  an 
honest  spirit,  and  pleaded  with  him,  saying,  "  Come, 
bow  down.  You  are  growing  very  unpopular,  and 
your  business  is  suffering.  Soon  you  will  be  poor, 
perhaps  a  bankrupt,  unless  you  worship  our  god. 
You  must  do  as  others  in  this  community,  if  you 
wish  to  get  on.  You  may  pretend  to  worship  any 
god  you  please,  so  long  as  you  give  your  real 
allegiance  to  our  god.  All  of  us  pretend  to  wor 
ship  quite  another  god,  as  you  know,  and  we  are 
polite  to  each  other  about  that  pretence,  and  get 
on  and  thrive. 

"  We  hate  to  see  you  suffer.  We  know  you 
mean  well,  and  we  like  you.  But  give  up  your 
foolish  attitude  of  aloofness.  There  is  but  one 
real  god  who  will  feed  you  and  clothe  you.  You 
should  be  sensible  enough  to  know  that.  Come,  be 
practical." 

But  the  man  of  an  honest  spirit  said,  "  I  am 
sorry,  but  for  me  it  is  impossible.  I  can  not  wor- 
23 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

ship  your  god,  I  don't  believe  in  him.  And  one 
reason  is  that  you  will  not  publicly  profess  to 
worship  him.  You  come  to  me  confidentially  as 
friends  —  and  I  am  grateful  —  to  help  me,  and  you 
acknowledge  that  you  pretend  to  worship  quite  an 
other  god.  For  some  reason  you  can  not,  or  will 
not,  publicly  profess  your  allegiance  to  your  real 
god.  Therefore  I  think  he  must  be  evil." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  they,  "  it  is  an  open  secret. 
Everybody  knows  it.  It  isn't  as  if  we  were  really 
deceiving  anybody.  Why,  we  should  be  fools 
really  to  serve  the  god  that  we  profess  to  serve. 
We  should  starve,  and  quite  likely  become  martyrs. 
So  far  as  we  know,  most  of  those  who  have  really 
served  him,  have  become  martyrs.  We  have  no 
such  ambition." 

"  Well,"  said  the  man  of  an  honest  spirit,  "  why 
wouldn't  it  do  for  me  actually  to  serve  your  real 
god  and  publicly  profess  to  serve  him  and  him  only? 
I  could  think  of  myself  as  doing  that." 

"  No,  no,"  said  they,  "  that  wouldn't  do.  You 
would  be  condemned.  People  wouldn't  stand  for 
that.  You  see,  you've  got  to  be  like  other  people. 
And  the  proper  thing  is  to  say  that  you  are  wor 
shiping  a  god  who  enjoins  love  and  unselfishness 
as  the  main  things.  You  don't  have  to  do  anything 
but  say  that.  Nobody  expects  you  to  act  that  way, 
but  you  do  have  to  say  it.  You  can't  be  so  simple 
as  not  to  understand  that." 

"  I  understand  it,"  said  the  man  of  an  honest 
spirit,  "  but  my  conscience  hurts  me  when  I  say 
I  serve  one  god  and  really  serve  another." 

"Oh,  bosh!"  said  they,  "you  are  talking  about 
your  conscience.  Does  our  conscience  bother  us? 
24 


The  Wanderer 


—  Not  at  all.  The  trouble  with  you  is  that  you 
think  you  are  better  than  anybody  else.  We  are 
not  asking  you  to  do  anything  except  what  every 
body  else  does.  And,  frankly,  we  don't  care 
whether  you  do  it  or  not.  We  came  to  you 
merely  out  of  kindness,  and  we  are  done.  Take 
our  advice  or  leave  it.  It's  nothing  to  us," 

They  departed  in  anger. 

And  the  man  of  an  honest  spirit,  perplexed,  said 
to  himself,  "  It  is  odd  that  I  must  pretend  to  serve 
God  and  really  serve  Mammon.  Perhaps  I  had 
better  move  to  some  other  country." 


25 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  GREAT  WRITER 

ONCE  there  was  a  man  who  had  a  good  busi 
ness  and  prospered  well  in  the  affairs  of  the 
world.  But  he  was  not  content.  He  wished  to 
be  a  great  writer.  It  was  his  constant  prayer  to 
become  a  great  writer.  His  mind  was  full  of 
roseate  pictures  of  glory  and  joy  in  the  love  of  his 
fellows  that  fame  would  bring  him  when  he  should 
become  a  great  writer. 

In  the  course  of  time  it  happened  that  his  busi 
ness  failed,  because  he  no  longer  gave  it  undivided 
attention.  And  the  people  who  before  had 
esteemed  him,  looked  down  on  him  now  as  a  fail 
ure,  and  thought  him  a  fool  to  sacrifice  a  good 
business  to  an  uncertain  ambition.  And  his  wife 
became  tired  of  the  poverty  that  followed,  and  com 
plaining  of  his  lack  of  devotion,  left  him  and  found 
a  more  prosperous  husband. 

Creditors  dogged  at  his  heels  and  accused  him, 
saying  that  he  was  a  thief  and  a  swindler,  because 
he  had  bought  without  paying,  and  could  not  pay 
when  they  dunned  him. 

His  business  was  gone  and  his  wife  and  most  of 
his  friends,  for  he  was  unable  to  return  his  friends' 
favors.  And  on  top  of  all  this,  the  publishers 
scorned  him,  because  he  was  new  and  his  writings 
were  different.  Still  he  wrote  and  wrote  despite 
his  privations.  He  was  indeed  trying  to  become 
a  great  writer. 

At  last  when  despair  was  already  clutching  his 
26 


The  Great  Writer 


throat  and  it  seemed  that  all  of  his  dreams  were 
doomed  to  unending  disaster,  there  was  found  a 
publisher  who  ventured  to  publish  some  part  of 
his  writings.  For  years  they  were  coldly  re 
ceived,  but  then  the  public  woke  up,  and  acclaimed 
him  a  master.  He  was  old  and  tired  and  deserted 
and  lonely.  And  the  thrill  of  joy  that  he  felt  was 
as  weak  as  a  moonbeam  compared  with  the  bril 
liant  sun  of  his  anticipation.  He  had  merely  the 
feeling  that  perhaps  after  all  his  life  had  not  been 
wholly  a  failure. 

Posterity  mentions  his  name  with  true  reverence, 
saying  he  was  indeed  a  great  writer,  but,  sighing 
lightly,  remarks  that  he  had  some  sort  of  financial 
trouble  and  was  not  quite  happy  in  his  domestic 
relations.  And  young  writers  of  our  later  times 
look  back  and  envy  the  glory  of  the  poor,  old, 
broken,  lonely  man,  never  realizing  the  price  of 
that  glory. 

Oh,  but  indeed  that  glory  is  the  endless  tribute 
of  hearts  that  he  comforts.  And  the  price  that  he 
paid  —  who  shall  say  it  was  out  of  proportion  ? 


27 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


PARADOX 

ONCE  upon  a  time  was  a  wife  who  discovered 
that  her  husband  was  unfaithful,  but  she 
loved  him,  so  she  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Should 
she  reproach  him  ?  No,  she  might  lose  him.  Should 
she  tell  him  she  knew  and  still  not  reproach  him? 
No,  she  might  lose  him.  Oh,  she  didn't  want  to 
lose  him! 

Should  she  show  herself  to  him  more  loving  than 
ever,  more  affectionate,  more  passionate,  more 
hungry  for  love? — She  tried  it.  But  the  thought 
of  the  other  woman !  Oh,  the  thought  of  the  other 
woman!  It  was  bitter.  It  was  gall  in  her  hus 
band's  kisses.  On  his  lips  was  the  wormwood  of 
the  other  woman. 

Should  she  withhold  herself,  be  cold  and  indif 
ferent? —  She  tried  it.  And  more  than  ever  her 
husband  was  absent  from  home  and  fireside.  More 
than  ever  he  frequented  the  abode  of  his  mistress. 
And  more  than  ever  she  hated  to  lose  him.  Bitterer 
than  ever  the  thought  of  caresses,  the  besmirching 
caresses  of  the  wanton  woman  showered  on  her 
husband,  on  her  own  husband.  Ugh!  The  slime 
of  them! 

Should  she  kill  the  woman?  Should  she  slay  the 
viper  that  had  crept  into  her  nest,  her  nest  in  the 
heart  of  her  husband?  Should  she?  Should  she? 
Oh,  how  she  wished  she  could.  But  she  couldn't. 
Oh,  no,  she  could  not  kill.  She  was  too  gentle  for 
that.  She  could  not  kill  even  a  nauseous  viper 
28 


Paradox 

coiled  in  the  heart  of  her  husband.  And  she  might 
lose  him.  And  she  loved  him.  Oh,  she  didn't 
want  to  lose  him! 

Should  she  win  for  herself  some  lover,  or  appear 
to,  and  get  back  her  husband  through  jealousy? 
She  tried  it.  But  no,  it  wouldn't  do.  She  loved 
her  husband.  The  very  hands  of  her  lover  were 
repulsive  to  her.  She  hated  his  touch.  His  skin 
shone  with  cleanness,  but  she  couldn't  bear  his 
touch.  She  felt  it  defile  her.  So  she  sent  him 
away. 

But  it  was  not  right,  it  was  not  fair  that  she 
should  go  on  loving  her  husband.  She  would 
strangle  that  love.  She  tried  it.  No,  no.  She 
could  not  strangle  that.  What  would  be  left  to 
her?  That  love  had  been  the  world  to  her.  She 
could  not  strangle  that.  Her  past  happiness  had 
been  given  by  that  love.  But  her  future  happiness 
—  where  would  that  come  from  ?  She  must  look 
to  her  future  happiness. 

It  broke  upon  her  like  a  dawn  that  her  future 
happiness  must  come  from  that  love.  Not  from 
the  love  of  her  husband  for  her,  but  from  her  love 
for  her  husband.  That  was  to  remain  her  treasure. 
Oh,  that,  at  least,  she  could  hug  to  her  bosom. 
That  was  imperishable. 

And  what  happened  ?  —  Oh,  she  was  irradiated, 
made  transcendent,  luminous.  And  her  husband, 
seeing,  knelt  before  the  holy  mystery,  entreating 
forgiveness. 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  WHINER 

BEHOLD,  there  was  a  certain  man  who  be 
wailed  his  lot  and  complained  to  God  con 
tinually  because  of  his  troubles  and  many  distresses, 
saying,  "  I  have  such  bad  fortune,  everything  goes 
wrong  with  me.  I  am  not  as  other  men.  They 
all  have  their  blessings,  while  I  am  the  butt  of 
every  disaster." 

And  God  was  wearied  with  his  whining,  so  sent 
down  an  angel  with  fullest  instructions  to  offer 
the  man  interchange  of  identity  with  some  one 
more  fortunate. 

And  the  angel,  coming  down,  said,  "  God  sends 
me  here  to  swap  you  into  the  body  of  the  richest 
man  that  you  know,  and  if  you  choose,  you  may  be 
he,  have  what  he  has,  and  enjoy  it,  and  he  must  be 
you  to  bear  your  afflictions." 

"What!  "  said  the  man,  "me  be  that  old  man! 
No,  thank  you.  He's  all  twisted  up  with  rheuma 
tism.  I  don't  want  to  be  him." 

"  Well,"  said  the  angel,  "  you  may  be  the  social 
leader  in  your  community.  He  is  young,  well- 
to-do,  and  has  the  prettiest  wife  in  the  city." 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  "  I  wouldn't  be  him.  He 
is  foolish,  and  his  wife  is  very  extravagant.  I  don't 
want  to  be  him." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  be  the  governor  of 
the  state.  He  is  generally  admired  and  respected." 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  "  he  has  too  many  responsi 
bilities  and  too  many  enemies.  I  don't  want  to  be 
him." 

30 


The  Whiner 


"  All  right,"  said  the  angel,  "  my  instructions 
are  to  allow  you  three  days  to  consider  and  decide 
who  you  would  be.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  I 
will  come  to  hear  your  decision  and  fulfil  it." 

For  two  days  and  nights  the  man  earnestly  can 
vassed  in  his  mind  the  lot,  character,  and  circum 
stance  of  every  acquaintance  that  he  had  in  the 
city. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he  was  filled 
with  contrition,  and  prayed  humbly  to  God,  say 
ing,  "  O  God,  the  fault  is  in  me.  I  have  been  a 
whiner.  I  would  not  swap  places  with  any  of  my 
fellows.  They  all  have  their  faults  or  their 
troubles,  which  I  dislike  more  than  mine  own. 
Forgive  me.  My  faults  I  will  amend,  my  troubles 
I  will  overcome  or  endure  as  I  can.  Forgive  me." 

In  such  wise  have  many  people  been  moved  to 
contrition.  And  there  is  no  telling  but  the  angel 
will  come  to  you  or  to  me.  Perhaps  we  dream  our 
choice  would  be  different.  But  by  taking  thought 
we  may  save  the  angel  some  trouble. 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  STONE  MASON 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  stone  mason  who  was 
hired  to  work  on  a  church,  and  he  was  lazy 
and  faithless.  He  said  to  himself,  "  The  building 
committee  will  hardly  take  time  to  inspect  very 
closely  the  work  that  I  do,  for  the  church  is  not 
the  property  of  any  of  them." 

So  he  laid  the  stones  in  their  courses  but  loosely, 
and  plumbed  them  so  carelessly  that  the  walls  were 
ready  to  totter  before  they  were  finished.  And 
as  he  had  foreseen,  the  building  committee  were  in 
a  great  hurry,  each  man  to  return  to  his  business 
that  might  afford  him  a  profit.  And  they  did  not 
detect  the  slackness  of  the  stone  mason's  work. 

And  it  happened  not  so  very  long  afterward  that 
the  debt  on  the  church,  incurred  for  its  building, 
was  discharged  by  full  payment.  So  a  bishop  was 
sent  for  to  dedicate  the  house  to  the  worship  of 
God.  And  the  people  felt  proud  of  themselves, 
taking  much  credit  that  they  had  built  so  hand 
some  a  temple. 

The  bishop  was  an  eloquent  man,  and  he  tickled 
the  pride  of  the  people  as  in  the  course  of  his 
prayer  he  told  God  Almighty  what  a  wonderful 
folk  they  were.  How  good  and  how  pious  and 
self-sacrificing  to  have  spent  so  much  of  their 
money  in  constructing  an  edifice  for  worship,  when 
they  might  have  spent  all  of  this  money  on  personal 
adornment  or  some  other  folly. 

But  it  happened  that  while  he  was  praying,  the 
32 


The  Stone  Mason 


walls  came  down  with  a  crash  and  killed  some  of 
the  people  and  maimed  many  others.  And  the 
mason  had  come  to  the  service  to  hear  himself 
praised  as  the  builder  of  the  beautiful  temple  of 
God.  He  was  crushed  to  death  in  the  ruins. 

The  surviving  members  of  the  church  said  it 
served  the  mason  right,  and  was  a  judgment  of 
God  visited  upon  him.  There  was  another  de 
nomination  in  the  same  town,  and  they  said  it  was 
a  judgment  of  God  visited  upon  that  whole  church 
for  its  heretical  teaching.  But  those  opposed  to  all 
churches  held  that  it  was  a  judgment  of  God 
visited  upon  the  members  for  ungodly  pride  in  the 
building  and  hypocrisy  in  general.  The  bishop 
said,  "  Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  he  chasteneth." 

And  the  building  committee,  for  obvious  reasons, 
agreed  with  the  bishop,  but  with  a  mental  reserva 
tion  in  regard  to  the  mason,  on  whom  they  laid  all 
of  the  blame,  not  even  believing  that  God  loved 
him. 


33 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


FAILURE 

THERE  was  a  certain  man  of  family  who  in 
herited  a  fortune,  and  thereafter  in  all 
business  transactions  he  was  lenient  and  generous. 
From  time  to  time  he  sold  his  lands  on  easy  terms, 
and  rented  out  his  houses  at  a  low  price.  And  he 
forbore  to  collect  his  revenues  when  it  seemed  that 
collection  would  work  a  hardship  on  his  debtors. 
All  of  his  debtors  praised  him  and  called  him  a 
good  fellow,  and  they  spread  the  word  around  that 
no  man  was  compelled  to  pay  him. 

Oft  times  the  tenants  who  lived  in  his  houses 
would  come  to  him  with  such  tales  of  sorrow  that 
he  would  remit  their  rent  and  lend  them  his  moneys 
to  relieve  their  troubles.  And  the  crops  of  those 
who  had  bought  his  land  were  always  bad,  and 
they  could  not  pay  interest  without  depriving  their 
families  of  food  and  clothing.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  all  the  woes  of  the  world  piled  up  on  the 
heads  of  any  who  came  into  his  debt,  and  he  was 
sorry  for  them. 

So  it  went  on  until  at  last  he  must  seek  out  the 
bankers  and  borrow  from  them,  for  his  own  family 
at  home  had  begun  to  suffer  for  lack  of  ordinary 
comforts.  He  was  an  upright  man,  and  known 
to  have  a  large  inheritance,  so  the  bankers  loaned 
to  him  readily.  But  when  their  interest  fell  due, 
they  insisted  on  payment,  and  the  man  had  not  the 
heart  to  proceed  against  his  own  debtors,  so  he 
borrowed  from  usurers  to  pay  the  bankers  their 
34 


Failure 

interest.  And  soon  the  usurers  came  snarling  at 
his  heels,  like  wolves,  for  their  usury.  And  now 
claims  for  both  interest  and  principal  were 
showered  thick  on  the  unhappy  man,  and  he  was 
ashamed  to  go  home  to  his  family,  for  his  wife 
would  ask  him  what  had  become  of  his  inheritance, 
and  he  felt  that  the  hearts  of  his  children  were  full 
of  reproaches. 

He  went  to  the  lawyers,  who  persuaded  him  to 
hire  them  to  sue  all  his  debtors.  So  he  sued  them, 
but  alas  his  very  leniency  was  pleaded  against  him, 
for  in  many  cases  the  time  had  elapsed,  so  that 
he  could  recover  but  little,  and  moreover  he  made 
enemies  of  all  those  who  had  owed  him.  His 
dearest  wish  had  been  to  be  regarded  as  kind  of 
heart,  and  now  many  people  hated  him.  All  that 
he  recovered  had  to  be  paid  to  the  lawyers,  so  he 
got  nothing  by  this  litigation. 

Bankers  and  usurers  joined  forces  and  swooped 
down  upon  him,  and  took  from  him  all  of  his 
pledges.  Even  then  their  demands  were  not  paid 
in  full,  so  they  called  him  a  swindler  and  scoundrel, 
and  respectable  people  avoided  him. 

Such  was  the  way  that  the  man  told  his  story, 
but  it  was  not  quite  true,  though  he  was  unaware 
of  its  falsity.  It  was  not  kindness  of  heart,  but 
vanity  that  ruined  him.  Too  dearly  he  loved  to 
be  praised,  and  so  lost  all  his  substance  in  grasping 
a  shadow. 


35 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  ANGEL  OF  GOOD  GIFTS 

THE   angel  of  good  gifts  came  to  earth  and 
stood    on    a   street   corner,    meaning   to   stop 
passers-by,  and  bestow  on  them  a  benefit. 

It  happened  that  the  first  person  who  came  was 
a  banker.  "  What  wouldst  thou  have,"  the  angel 
asked,  "to  increase  thy  happiness?  " 

And  the  banker  replied,  "  If  only  I  had  another 
million,  I  should  be  content." 

As  they  stood  talking,  a  beggar  shuffled  by,  and 
the  angel  inquired  of  him  what  he  wished  above  all 
things. 

The  beggar  said,  "  I  would  choose  a  thousand 
dollars,  then  I  should  be  happy." 

A  housewife  was  passing  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  The  angel  stopped  her,  and  said,  "  Name 
what  thou  most  desirest,  and  thou  shalt  have  it." 

And  the  housewife  answered,  "  Oh,  if  my  hus 
band's  salary  were  doubled,  all  of  my  cares  would 
vanish,  and  I  should  be  so  happy.' 

Next  came  a  little  child  crying.  The  angel 
caught  it  up  in  his  arms,  and  asked,  "  Why  dost 
thou  weep  ?  What  wouldst  thou  have  ?  " 

And  the  child  said  amid  sobs,  "  I  want  a  penny, 
and  Papa  wouldn't  give  it  to  me." 

Then  trudged  by  a  working-man  with  a  scowl 
on  his  face,  and  to  the  angel's  query  replied,  "  My 
wages  are  too  low.  We  are  striking  for  an  in 
crease  of  twenty  per  cent." 

"  And  that  would  satisfy  thee?  " 
36 


The  Angel  of  Good  Gifts 


"  Yes,  I  shall  be  happy  if  we  get  it." 

A  poet,  a  reformer,  a  preacher,  a  lawyer,  a  har 
lot  —  all  wanted  more  money.  For  God  had  de 
creed  that  every  soul  questioned  must  speak  truth 
to  the  angel. 

The  angel  granted  the  wish  of  them  all,  and 
overjoyed  flew  back  to  Heaven.  It  had  been  so 
simple  and  easy.  All  wanted  the  same  thing, 
whereas  the  angel  had  feared  that  such  a  variety 
of  gifts  would  be  desired  as  to  tax  his  powers. 

Radiant  he  came  to  the  throne,  "  Oh,  Father," 
he  said,  "  I  have  made  so  many  people  happy." 

And  God  answered,  "  Foolish,  foolish  angel, 
hereafter  thou  shalt  stay  in  Heaven." 

And  God  sent  the  angel  of  sacrifice  to  abide  with 
men  and  lead  them  along  the  road  to  happiness. 
But  him  will  they  not  follow.  They  cry  out  in 
cessantly  for  the  return  of  the  angel  of  good  gifts. 


37 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


ILLUSION 

ONCE  upon  a  time  two  pure-minded  and  inno 
cent  lovers  sat  with  hands  clasped  each  in  the 
other's,  talking  of  the  future.  Their  thoughts  were 
very  happy  and  their  hopes  very  bright.  For  each 
believed  that  in  the  other  was  perfection  embodied. 
And  neither  could  quell  the  wonder  that  either 
was  thought  worthy  by  the  other  to  wed  such  per 
fection.  And  in  their  minds  was  the  picture  of 
the  home  to  be  —  not  a  grand  home,  but  a  sweet 
one,  with  flowers  around  it,  and  musical  with  the 
voices  of  children  engendered  by  their  love. 

Oh,  they  were  happy!  Spirits  of  the  redeemed 
looked  down  from  the  ramparts  of  Heaven  and 
rejoiced,  because  in  the  lovers  they  saw  a  happiness 
equal  to  their  own  except  in  duration.  And  those 
spirits  hoped  even  that  so  great  a  love  might  sur 
vive  the  limits  of  human  mortality  and  persist  in 
the  ageless  hereafter.  They  knew,  they  must  have 
known,  that  such  was  impossible.  But  the  loveli 
ness  of  love  cloyed  their  discernment  —  a  discern 
ment  supernal,  far  above  that  of  humans. 

And  the  thoughts  of  the  lovers  ran  far  to  the 
future.  Through  shining  years,  through  joyous 
strength,  but  they  recked  not  of  age  or  decadence. 
For  he  said,  "  We  shall  love  forever  and  ever." 

And  she  echoed,  "Forever!  Nothing  shall 
conquer  our  love,  but  it  will  grow  stronger  and 
stronger." 

And  hands  tightened  their  pressure,  as  lips  met 
38 


Illusion 

in  the  fondest  of  kisses,  and  sighs  of  sweet  rapture 
slipped  from  hearts  ravished  with  passion.  And 
instant,  immediate  was  the  call  of  that  passion,  for 
they  were  young.  Oh,  joy!  they  were  young. 

Panting,  he  whispered,  "  My  angel." 

And  she  throbbingly  answered,  "  My  darling! 
Press  me  close.  Fill  me,  oh,  fill  me  with  love's 
dear  ecstasy.  I  burn  for  thee." 

"And  I  for  thee!" 

Oh,  was  this  in  the  long  ago?  Hush!  it  is  time 
less,  fleeting.  It  comes  and  goes  —  and  returns, 
ever  seeming  to  end,  but  yet  never  ending.  If  it 
were  yesterday,  it  will  be  deathless.  If  a  thou 
sand  years  agone,  it  will  be  deathless.  If  to 
morrow,  it  will  never  die.  Oh,  it  will  live  in  the 
memory,  in  the  hopes,  of  men  and  of  women.  It 
is  the  joy  of  joys.  It  is  radiant  life  in  full  zenith. 

Ah,  thou  cold  anchorite,  pity  that  thou  must 
have  missed  it!  Ah,  thou  beaded  nun,  feel  in  thy 
every  bead  a  plashy  tear.  And  vestals  of  all  other 
creeds,  weep  —  but  pray  your  gods  for  sweet 
imagining. 


39 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


A  RIDDLE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  poor  man  overtook  a 
ragged  woman  on  the  highway.  She  was 
carrying  a  bundle  closely  wrapped.  With  the 
freemasonry  of  the  poor  he  accosted  her  and 
trudged  along  by  her  side. 

At  length  he  asked  her,  "  What  have  you  in  that 
bundle  that  you  carry  so  carefully  ?  " 

"  A  baby,"  she  answered,  "  my  baby." 

"How  old  is  it?" 

"  It  is  six  weeks  old,  and  it  is  the  best  little 
thing  you  ever  saw." 

"Where  is  its  father?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  long 
time." 

"  Well,  where  are  you  going?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know!" 

"  No,  I  don't  know.  I  am  just  going  away  from 
somewhere,  not  to  any  place." 

And  tears  ran  down  her  face  that  he  saw  now 
was  swollen  from  weeping. 

"Why  are  you  going  away?' 

'  They  told  me  to  go  away.  They  said  I 
couldn't  stay  there  any  longer." 

"  Where  were  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  in  jail  back  yonder,"  she  motioned 
with  the  thumb  of  her  free  hand  over  her  shoulder. 

"And  they  told  you  you  couldn't  stay  in  jail?" 

"  Yes,  you  see,  I  was  sentenced  for  vagrancy. 
And  then  the  baby  came,  and  they  let  me  stay  past 
40 


A  Riddle 

the    time    of    the    sentence,    they    said,    and    they 
couldn't  let  me  stay  any  longer." 

"  Wouldn't  they  let  you  work  around  the  place 
for  your  keep  ?  " 

"  No,  they  wouldn't  do  that ;  I  asked  them.  But 
they  said  they  couldn't  do  that.  They  told  me  not 
to  stay  around  there.  They  said  for  me  to  go 
away." 

"Aren't  you  willing  to  work?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  willing  to  work." 

"  You  look  strong  enough." 

"  I  am  strong,  quite  strong,  and  I  asked  to  work, 
but  they  wouldn't  let  me.  They  just  kept  on  say 
ing  for  me  to  go  away,  so  I  am  going." 

"  Well,  who  is  your  baby's  father?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know!" 

"  No,  I  don't  really  know." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  you  haven't  been  a  good  woman,  and 
that  was  the  reason  they  wouldn't  let  you  stay." 

"  No,  I  haven't  been  a  very  good  woman,  but  I 
told  them  I  wanted  to  be  a  good  woman  and  that 
I  would  be  a  good  woman.  They  wouldn't  be 
lieve  me.  They  said  they  had  seen  my  kind  before, 
and  they  told  me  to  go  on  away." 

"  So  you  are  going,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  all  there  is  to  it,"  said  the  woman, 
"  unless,"  she  looked  at  him  meaningly,  "  unless  —  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  man,  "  you  don't  foist  your 
self  and  your  baby  on  me.  Here  is  a  dollar,  and 
it  is  pretty  nearly  my  last  one,  but  take  it  and  buy 
something  to  eat." 

He   handed   her  the  money,   and   quickened   his 
steps  so  as  to  leave  her  behind  him. 
41 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

She  sat  down  on  the  roadside  and  cried  a  while, 
for  she  was  tired  and  hungry.  Then  she  suckled 
the  baby.  Then  the  thought  of  the  food  that  the 
dollar  would  buy  in  the  next  town  took  possession 
of  her.  So  she  rose  and  hurried  on. 

What  do  you  suppose  ever  did  become  of  her 
and  her  baby? 


A  Problem 


A  PROBLEM 

THERE  was  a  great  hubbub  and  outcry  in  the 
midst   of    the   city.     A   man    accused   of   the 
crime  of  rape  had  been  apprehended. 

"Bring  him  out!  Bring  him  out!"  cried  the 
crowd,  "  Hang  him!  Hang  him!  " 

He  was  brought  forth.  There  he  stood,  gross 
body,  bull  neck,  wide  jaws,  big  chin,  sensual  lips, 
fleshy  nose,  pig  eyes,  back-slanting  forehead. 
There  he  stood.  Oh,  he  was  a  human  brute! 

At  the  sight  of  him  the  anger  of  the  crowd 
\vaxed  stronger  than  ever.  Louder  than  ever  were 
the  cries  of,  "  Hang  him!  Hang  him!  " 

And  loudest  of  all  shrieked  a  pale,  anaemic  man, 
who  stood  in  the  forefront.  There  he  stood, 
slender  body,  slight  neck,  narrow  jaws,  small  chin, 
thin  lips,  aquiline  nose,  poet  eyes,  bulging  fore 
head.  There  he  stood.  And  his  piping  voice 
shrilled  loudest  of  all,  "  Hang  him!  Hang  him!  " 
for  to  him  the  crime  was  unspeakably  horrible. 

His  piercing  cry  rose  so  high  above  all  others 
that  all  eyes  were  fastened  on  his  delicate  face, 
and  there  was  almost  a  lull  but  for  him.  It  was 
as  if  he  were  elected  general  accuser  to  voice  the 
wrath  of  his  fellows.  And  the  sense  of  it  thrilled 
his  nerves,  lashed  his  overstrung  nerves  to  a  climax 
of  fun',  so  that  his  cries  became  quite  incoherent. 

Stolid,  dull,  unmoving,  save  for  a  slight  twitch 
of   his   muscles,    stood    the   accused.     Not   even   a 
shifting   glance   seeking    a   way   to   escape,    for   it 
would  have  been  hopeless. 
43 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"Burn  him!  Burn  him!"  the  straining  crowd 
caught  from  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  accuser  re 
duced  to  a  whisper.  And  the  cry  was  taken  up  on 
all  sides,  "Burn  him!  Burn  him!" 

It  was  as  if  an  oracle  had  spoken.  And  it  was 
an  oracle  that  never  had  felt,  that  never  could  feel, 
the  mighty  surge  of  lust  that  had  swept  through 
the  veins  of  its  victim  and  met  there  no  inhibition. 

Yes,  the  crowd  burned  the  accused,  whom  some 
power  had  made  with  gross  body,  bull  neck,  wide 
jaws,  big  chin,  sensual  lips,  fleshy  nose,  pig  eyes, 
and  back-slanting  forehead  —  a  brute  in  human 
form. 

Where  think  you  lay  the  greatest  guilt? 


44 


Good  Counsel 


GOOD  COUNSEL 

AND  behold!  there  was  a  certain  preacher  who 
came  to  preach  in  a  city.  As  he  looked  on  all 
sides  about  him,  he  saw  nothing  but  sin.  So  he 
rose  in  the  pulpit  and  denounced  all  of  the  people, 
and  said  they  were  the  disciples  of  hell.  And  they 
paid  little  attention.  They  came  in  throngs,  it  is 
true,  to  hear  what  he  said,  but  their  conduct  they 
changed  not.  Day  in  and  day  out  they  continued 
their  sinning. 

And  the  preacher  grew  frantic.  He  cursed  with 
all  holy  curses  in  the  name  of  Jehovah  the  unre- 
generate  people.  And  his  fury  waxed  and  grew 
ever  greater.  And  he  warned  all  the  people  that 
some  great  disaster  would  fall  on  their  city  if  they 
changed  not  their  ways  and  walked  not  in  the 
paths  that  he  pointed  out.  But  they  paid  little 
attention,  though  throngs  came  out  to  hear  him. 
They  sat  still  and  heard  him,  and  then  went  on 
with  their  sinning. 

And  disaster  came  not  to  the  city.  It  basked  in 
the  sun,  harmed  neither  by  fire,  earthquake,  nor 
tempest.  And  the  people  as  usual  engaged  in  their 
business.  They  ate  and  drank  and  were  merry. 
They  wept  and  died  and  were  buried.  They 
married  and  gave  their  daughters  in  marriage. 
They  brought  up  their  children,  supported  their 
families,  and  worked  for  a  living.  They  went  to 
church  and  theater.  They  danced,  they  said  their 
prayers,  fooled  along,  and  flirted. 
45 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

And  the  preacher  was  stirred  to  still  greater 
anger,  so  he  prayed,  "  O  God  in  the  highest,  send 
down  to  this  people  some  awful  disaster.  Let  the 
storm  blow  or  the  earth  open  or  fire  come  and 
sweep  the  whole  city,  so  that  the  people  may  know 
that  thou  art  a  righteous  God,  exacting  thy 
vengeance." 

But  oddly  it  happened  that  a  fire  came  and  de 
stroyed  only  the  home  of  the  preacher.  And  some 
were  foolish  enough  to  rejoice  and  say  that  God 
sent  it.  And  the  preacher  was  so  cast  down  in  his 
heart  that  he  sought  for  wise  counsel,  and  he  got  it. 

There  was  an  old  deacon  who  told  him,  "  You 
have  so  long  looked  for  sin  tljat  your  eyes  are 
blinded  to  virtue.  You  have  uncontradicted  ac 
counted  yourself  the  mouthpiece  of  God  till  you 
are  puffed  up  beyond  measure.  You  would  destroy 
a  people  that  you  can  not  bend  to  your  will,  so  at 
heart  you  are  a  murderer.  And  worst  of  all  you 
have  forgot  that  it  is  love,  and  not  anger,  that 
melts  men's  hearts  and  inclines  them  to  God. 
Suppose  you  try  forgetting  yourself  and  loving  your 
people.  They  have  many  virtues,  and  deserve  all 
the  love  you  can  give  them." 

But  I  doubt  if  that  preacher  could  follow  the 
counsel. 


The   Train  of  Ignorance 


THE  TRAIN  OF  IGNORANCE 

THROUGH  the  streets  of  a  city  that  exists 
in  many  places  at  once,  but  that  nevertheless 
is  quite  real,  there  passed  a  procession.  It  was 
a  long  procession,  and  awful  beyond  words  to  de 
scribe  it. 

At  its  head  was  a  gross,  misshapen,  gibbering 
figure,  of  enormous  proportions,  reeling  along  with 
unsteady  gait,  a  ponderous  monster,  grinning.  His 
name  was  Ignorance.  And  all  they  who  came 
after  made  up  his  train. 

Close  in  the  wake  of  the  monster  marched  Un 
timely  Death  with  a  leash  in  his  hand,  leading 
behind  him  his  numberless  victims.  And  his 
countenance  was  fearsome,  so  vague  was  it,  and  yet 
so  compelling.  It  had  no  fiery  fierceness,  but  a 
cold,  impassive  malice  that  froze  the  beholders. 
And  his  victims  for  the  most  part  were  babies,  but 
there  were  millions  of  older  children,  and  youths 
and  maidens,  and  men  and  women,  even  to  the  very 
aged.  And  a  heart-rending  wail  went  up  from 
these  victims. 

And  next  came  Disease,  the  satrap  of  Death,  and 
his  victims  followed,  all  maimed  and  twisted,  dis 
torted,  deformed,  and  disfigured.  Slowly  they 
shuffled,  hobbled,  crawled  along.  Disease,  looking 
back  at  them,  leered,  a  slaver  trickling  from  his 
horrid  lips,  as  if  he  burned  to  devour  their  cancer 
ous  bodies.  The  stench  of  the  throng  was  past  all 
47 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

enduring.  And  their  groans  like  a  constant 
thunder  were  split  with  flashes  of  shrieking. 

And  next  came  Superstition  waving  a  firebrand 
and  pressed  close  by  her  ministers  and  votaries. 
Her  face  was  insane.  On  it  flaming  fury  alter 
nated  with  cruel  cunning.  At  her  right  hand 
marched  Intolerance,  and  on  her  left  Vindictive- 
ness,  and  behind  these  a  rabble  of  witches  and 
demons,  heathen  priests,  and  devils  and  torturers 
and  fanatics  and  ghouls  and  medicine-men  and  con 
jurers.  And  the  eyes  of  these  were  fixed  on 
Superstition,  and  their  voices  were  calling  to  her, 
claiming  rewards  for  their  service.  And  for  proof 
they  held  up  in  their  hands  the  bleeding  hearts  of 
their  victims.  And  the  victims  followed  —  wave 
after  wave  of  mutilated  bodies  and  stunted  souls 
crying  for  mercy,  but  ceaselessly  attacked  by 
witches  and  demons  and  spirits  of  evil  flying  above 
and  around  them  and  raging  among  them. 

And  next  was  Tyranny,  borne  along  on  a  throne 
by  courtiers  and  spies,  and  followed  by  an  army 
of  cut-throats  and  assassins.  And  Tyranny  was 
decked  out  in  splendor.  Gold  lace  and  ribands 
and  purple  adorned  him  and  his  retainers.  But 
the  sceptre  of  Tyranny  was  a  thigh-bone,  and  his 
crown  was  a  skull.  And  there  danced  before  him 
a  band  of  Furies  casting  dead  men's  bones  in  his 
pathway  that  his  ear  might  be  pleased  with  their 
crunching.  And  behind  him  came  crawling  his 
subjects  with  fear  in  their  eyes,  their  limbs  trem 
bling,  and  his  captives  bound  with  chains,  gashed, 
and  all  bleeding.  And  the  noise  of  their  lamenta 
tions  was  deafening. 

Last  in  the  line  came  hideous  Poverty.  And  his 
48 


The   Train  of  Ignorance 


slaves  that  followed  were  wan  and  despairing. 
And  Crime  rode  on  his  shoulders.  And  they  all 
slunk  along  as  if  ashamed  of  existence,  as  if,  drawn 
from  slums  and  dark  cellars,  they  could  not  bear 
the  light  of  day  on  their  faces.  Dull  and  dejected 
and  miserable,  they  made  a  piteous  throng  to 
wring  the  hearts  of  onlookers.  And  like  a  sweat 
from  their  ranks  exuded  a  sound,  a  million-fold 
whine  of  the  mendicant. 

So  through  all  of  the  ages  hath  marched  this 
foul  monster.  And  thousands  who  watched  the 
procession,  have  turned  idly  away,  saying,  "  It  is 
hopeless,  naught  can  be  done,  it  is  hopeless." 


49 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  PEOPLE 

THE  country  was  said  to  be  in  a  bad  way. 
And  there  was  a  man  who  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  find  out  what  ailed  it.  So  he  be 
gan  his  search  by  asking  the  first  person  he  met 
on  the  street. 

"  Our  country,"  said  he,  "  is  in  a  bad  way. 
There  seems  to  be  something  fundamentally  wrong. 
What  do  you  think  is  the  matter  with  it?  " 

"Think?"  answered  the  person,  "I  know. 
The  trouble  is  that  the  lawyers  are  not  given  the 
power  they  ought  to  have.  Here  are  men  trained 
in  the  law,  men  who  have  devoted  their  lives  to 
the  study  of  government  in  all  of  its  phases,  and 
how  are  they  treated?  Their  advice  is  scorned, 
their  opinion  is  set  at  naught,  and  they  are  made 
a  target  for  abuse  and  recrimination.  Farmers  and 
merchants  and  preachers  govern  this  country. 
What  could  you  expect?  They  don't  know  any 
thing  about  laws,  and  they  muss  everything  up  till 
it  is  disgusting." 

"  I  take  it  that  you  are  a  lawyer,"  said  the  man. 

"  Yes,  I  am,  but  — " 

The  man  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  walked  on. 
He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  met  another  person, 
who  looked  rather  important  and  knowing,  so  the 
man  stopped,  and  to  this  person  propounded  the 
same  query. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  person,  "  our  country  is  in 
a  deplorable  condition,  and  the  source  of  the 
50 


The  People 

trouble  is  the  general  neglect  of  the  teaching  of 
the  church  and  the  lack  of  respect  for  her  ministers. 
Lawyers,  many  of  whom  are  infidels,  govern  the 
country  to  the  detriment  of  religion.  Why,  the 
laws  allow  all  kinds  of  shows  to  remain  open  on 
the  holy  Sabbath,  trains  to  be  run,  newspapers  to 
be  printed,  and  all  sorts  of  secular  business  to  be 
carried  on.  What  could  you  expect?  The  min 
isters  of  the  gospel  are  scorned  and  ridiculed,  and 
have  no  power  to  enforce  the  decrees  of  God.  No 
wonder  the  country  is  headed  straight  for 
destruction." 

"  I  take  it,"  said  the  man,  "  that  you  are  a 
preacher." 

"Yes,  I  am,  but—" 

The  man  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  walked 
on  till  he  met  a  person  who  looked  rural,  and  to 
this  person  he  put  the  same  question. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  answered,  "  the  country  is  in  a 
bad  fix,  and  I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  it.  And 
why  ?  —  Because  the  farmers  are  the  backbone 
of  the  country  and  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  no 
body  gives  them  a  show.  That's  why.  Rascally 
lawyers  make  the  laws,  and  they  make  them  for 
their  own  advantage,  so  that  the  farmers  have  to 
pay  for  everything.  And  the  merchants  cheat  the 
farmers  all  of  the  time,  and  the  preachers  are 
always  taking  up  collections.  The  farmers  have 
to  support  everybody,  and  don't  have  any  say  about 
anything  in  this  country,  and  everybody  makes  fun 
of  them.  It  is  easy  enough  to  see  what  ails  this 
country." 

"  I  take  it,"  said  the  man,  "  that  you  are  a 
farmer." 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  Yes,  I  am,  but  — " 

The  man  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  walked 
on  till  he  met  a  person  very  dapper  and  brisk  in 
his  movements,  and  of  this  person  he  asked  the 
same  question. 

And  this  was  the  answer,  "  Oh,  well,  the  busi 
ness  man  has  no  chance.  Every  merchant  is 
hampered  and  pestered  by  a  multiplicity  of  fool 
laws  made  by  lawyers  and  farmers  and  preachers, 
till  it  is  almost  impossible  to  carry  on  business. 
What  this  country  needs  is  a  business  administra 
tion,  but  I  don't  think  it  ever  will  get  it.  There 
are  too  many  demagogue  lawyers  and  fool  fanners 
and  bigoted  preachers.  Oh,  no,  a  man  in  business 
is  the  last  to  get  any  consideration." 

"  I  take  it,"  said  the  man,  "  that  you  are  a 
merchant." 

"Yes,  lam,  but— ' 

The  man  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  walked 
on.  He  had  found  what  it  was  that  ailed  the 
country. 


Mists 


MISTS 

A  HERMIT  dreaming  on  a  mountain  side  of 
men  and  things  soliloquized :  — 

"  In  the  valley  below  is  a  mist,  and  through  it 
stretches  a  highway.  I  sit  here  and  peer  at  my 
fellow  mortals.  Not  a  one  of  them  can  I  see 
clearly.  Nebulous  and  shadowy  are  their  faces, 
and  their  motions  are  made  to  me  to  seem 
grotesque. 

"  In  places  and  at  times  the  mist  thins  itself 
or  is  thinned,  is  so  attenuated  that  almost  I  fancy 
I  can  see  some  passenger  as  he  is.  For  one  brief 
moment  his  lineaments  emerge  lit  up  by  the  light 
above  him  and  me.  But  the  next  instant  is  he 
again  enveloped,  and  I  have  only  the  memory  of 
the  gleam.  If  I  could,  I  would  dissipate  the  ever 
changing  fog.  I  would  blow  upon  it  with  mighty 
lungs,  and  drive  it  from  the  valley.  But  to  me 
that  is  impossible. 

"  Or  if  I  could,  I  would  so  strengthen  the  power 
of  my  eye  that  its  gaze  would  penetrate  the  mist 
like  light  through  the  clear  ether.  Oh,  I  would 
love  to  see  my  fellows  as  they  are.  I  would  love 
to  read  on  their  faces  the  motions  of  their  hearts. 
I  would  love  to  sympathize  with  their  every  feel 
ing.  But  how  can  I  when  I  can  not  see?  To  me 
they  are  like  flitting  ghosts  in  veils  enshrouded." 

There  came  to  the  hermit  an  angel,  whispering, 
"  O  man  of  holiness,  descend  into  the  valley." 

"  Nay,  my  home  is  on  the  mountain  side,  where 
53 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

I  can  breathe  the  pure  air  of  heaven.  I  should 
suffocate  in  the  valley." 

But  the  angel  was  urgent,  and  would  not  be 
withstood,  "  Nay,  go  thou  into  the  valley." 

So  the  hermit,  gathering  his  gown  about  him,  be 
gan  the  descent.  And  as  he  proceeded,  the  mist 
grew  ever  thinner.  And  lo!  when  he  reached  the 
highway  on  which  toiled  his  fellow  mortals,  all 
was  clear  sunlight,  the  bright  whitness  of  a  sum 
mer  day.  And  the  passengers  along  the  highway 
were  no  longer  shadowy  or  nebulous,  but  every  man 
of  them  appeared  in  his  proper  color.  And  on 
his  face  was  written  his  joy  or  his  sorrow. 

And  the  hermit,  looking  back  up  the  mountain 
side,  saw  that  he  had  been  sitting  in  a  cloud. 


54 


The  Subtle  Man 


THE  SUBTLE  MAN 

ONCE  there  was  a  very  subtle  man  who  wished 
to  win  other  people  to  carry  out  his  purposes. 
And  he  met  a  wine-bibber,  who  drank  more  than 
any  of  his  neighbors.  And  the  subtle  man  praised 
the  wine-bibber,  saying,  "  Lo,  you  can  drink  more 
than  any  other  man  I  ever  saw.  You  can  drink 
as  much  as  you  please,  and  it  never  does  hurt  you. 
You  have  a  special  power.  You  are  an  exceptional 
man." 

And  he  met  a  libertine  who  had  ruined  a  great 
many  women.  And  the  subtle  man  praised  the 
libertine,  saying,  "  You  have  a  way  with  the 
women.  They  can  not  resist  you.  You  have  a 
special  power.  You  are  an  exceptional  man." 

And  he  met  a  miser  who  had  amassed  vast 
hoards  of  money,  so  that  his  vaults  were  crammed 
full  to  their  bursting.  And  the  subtle  man  praised 
the  miser,  saying,  "  You  are  the  richest  man  in  the 
country.  You  can  outwit  all  who  scheme  against 
you.  You  are  too  shrewd  for  them  all.  You  have 
a  special  power.  You  are  an  exceptional  man." 

And  he  met  an  evangelist  who  had  won  converts 
until  they  were  like  mullet  for  numbers.  And  the 
subtle  man  praised  the  evangelist,  saying,  "  You 
are  the  greatest  preacher  of  the  age.  No  sinner 
can  harden  his  heart  against  your  appeals  to  his 
conscience.  You  have  a  special  power.  You  are 
an  exceptional  man." 

And  he  met  a  waiter  in  a  restaurant  who  could 
55 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

bring  in  a  multitude  of  dishes  at  one  time.  He 
heaped  them  up  in  pyramids  almost  Egyptian,  and 
none  ever  fell  or  was  broken.  And  the  subtle  man 
praised  the  waiter,  saying,  "  You  are  the  best 
waiter  in  this  whole  city.  There  is  none  other 
like  you.  You  have  a  special  power.  You  are  an 
exceptional  man." 

And  he  met  a  street-sweeper,  who  cleaned  the 
streets  of  dirt,  dung,  and  offal.  He  swept  a  wider 
space  and  swept  it  cleaner  than  did  any  of  his 
fellows.  And  the  subtle  man  praised  the  street- 
sweeper,  saying,  "  You  are  the  best  sweeper  in  any 
of  the  gangs.  None  of  them  can  come  near  you. 
You  have  a  special  power.  You  are  an  exceptional 
man." 

And  the  subtle  man  had  his  way  with  them  all. 


Chains 


CHAINS 

IN  a  mad-house  he  sat  and  moaned  all  the  day 
long  of  chains,  chains,  chains.  Everywhere 
chains,  and  on  everybody.  Chains  wound  about 
every  son  and  daughter  of  man  and  woman. 
Hands,  feet,  head,  and  soul  bound  fast  in  chains. 

"  What  is  love  but  a  chain  binding  one  to  an 
other —  hampering  the  free  impulses  of  the  spirit? 
My  love  binds  me,  and  your  love  binds  me.  I  can 
not  do  what  I  would  —  that  love  holds  me.  Oh, 
I  would  seek  out  far  lands,  and  I  can  not.  I 
would  sacrifice  myself  for  a  noble  purpose,  and 
I  can  not.  I  would  be  an  artist,  a  soldier,  a  saint, 
a  martyr,  and  I  can  not.  That  love  constrains 
me.  That  love  holds  me  in  the  narrow  ruts  of 
sordid  ways.  I  can  not  loose  myself,  and  it  is  the 
chain  of  love  that  strangles  my  spirit. 

"  And  the  chains  of  custom !  What  I  did 
yesterday  that  must  I  do  to-day.  What  you  and 
a  thousand  others  did  yesterday  that  must  I  do 
to-day.  What  men  long  dead  and  rotten  did  in 
their  puny  time,  must  I  do  to-day.  Oh,  I  am 
smothered,  I  am  suffocated,  so  heavy  is  the  weight 
of  custom's  chains.  And  if  I  strive  to  burst  them 
asunder !  Idle  old  slaves  sit  by  and  mock  my  strug 
gles.  '  Fool ! '  they  say,  '  he  strives  to  be  free.' — 
They  would  kill  me  rather  than  see  me  free.  They 
have  killed  others,  and  me  too  would  they  kill. 
My  freedom  would  reproach  their  slavery. 

"  And  the  chains  of  hate !  I  hate  you,  and  I  am 
57 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

bound  by  it.  Every  hate  I  cherish  or  foster  is  a 
chain,  and  I  can  not  free  myself  of  hate,  nor  envy, 
nor  avarice,  nor  pride,  nor  lust.  And  each  of 
them  is  a  chain.  I  am  enwrapped  by  them.  I  am 
involved  in  them,  tied  fast  as  with  triple  steel, 
nay,  bound  fast  by  these  like  a  Laocoon  crushed  by 
nauseous  snakes.  Stronger  are  they  than  steel  — 
and- alive!  Oh,  the  horrid  stench  of  them!  Oh,. 
the  hot  breath  and  the  coldness  of  them!  And 
the  gods  —  they  laugh  at  me.  They  fastened 
these  chains  about  me.  I  didn't  do  it.  Not  I. 
Out  of  the  depths  of  chaos  the  gods  summoned 
these  living  chains  to  press  the  soul  out  of  me. 
As  a  punishment?  —  Yes,  as  a  punishment  for 
crimes  committed  by  others.  So  I  am  told.  My 
fathers  sinned,  and  for  their  sins  these  hideous 
coils  tighten  around  me. 

"  Is  it  to  wonder  that  I  am  mad  ?  You,  you 
too  are  bound,  and  they  call  you  sane.  Ah,  God! 
a  madness,  a  thousand  madnesses,  rather  than  such 
stupidity!  " 


Interest 


INTEREST 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  country  that 
groaned  under  a  burden  of  great  taxation,  and 
both  people  and  rulers  were  in  despair,  for  a  new 
war  threatened,  and  more  money  must  be  raised. 
And  the  rulers  looked  diligently  about  to  discover 
what  tax  could  be  added,  but  the  people  trembled, 
for  hardly  could  they  bear  what  was  already  upon 
them. 

And  there  came  out  of  the  wilderness  a  poor 
hermit  who  long  had  reflected  in  solitude  on  the 
woes  of  his  country,  and  he  brought  with  him  a 
message  that  stirred  UD  his  hearers.  Tidings  came 
to  the  rulers  that  sedition  was  likely  in  that  part 
of  the  country  where  roamed  the  mad  hermit. 

So  the  rulers  sent  down  an  armed  guard  that 
took  the  hermit  and  brought  him  up  to  the  city 
where  dwelt  the  rulers,  "  What  is  this  new  mes 
sage,"  they  asked  him,  "  that  thou  scatterest  abroad 
to  the  harm  of  the  people  ?  " 

"  Nay,  my  masters,"  answered  the  hermit,  "  not 
to  the  harm  of  the  people,  not  that  —  but  I  will 
gladly  declare  it  to  you." 

"  Do  so  at  once,"  commanded  the  rulers. 

"  When  I  was  a  young  man  and  went  much 
about  among  the  people,"  said  the  hermit,  "  I  ob 
served  that  always  the  most  prosperous  were  the 
lenders  of  money.  They  were  the  fattest  and 
sleekest.  When  drouth  or  flood  or  other  disaster 
fell  on  the  country,  the  lenders  of  money  were  the 
59 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

last  to  suffer.  And  most  often  indeed  they  grew 
richer,  for  the  goods  of  their  neighbors,  already 
distressed,  were  forfeit  to  them.  So  that  most  of 
the  people  were  subject  not  so  much  to  the  govern 
ment  as  to  the  lenders  of  money,  who  were  em 
powered  by  law  to  exact  from  their  neighbors  a 
usury  called  interest." 

"  Yea,  such  is  the  law,"  answered  the  rulers. 

"  I  have  since  then  reflected,"  continued  the 
hermit,  "  that  money  is  purely  the  state's  creature. 
No  citizen  is  ever  permitted  to  coin  any  money, 
though  he  have  uncounted  stores  of  gold  and  of 
silver.  Am  I  right,  O  ye  rulers  ?  " 

"  You  are  right,"  answered  the  rulers. 

"  Well,  I  see  then  no  reason,"  spoke  out  the 
hermit,  "  why  the  state  should  not  derive  all  of 
the  benefit  from  its  own  creature." 

"  Meaning  what?"  asked  the  rulers. 

"  Enact  a  law  forbidding  any  man  to  charge  any 
thing  for  the  loan  of  his  money,"  answered  the 
hermit,  "  and  providing  that  the  state  alone  shall 
have  the  right  to  receive  interest,  making  the 
penalty  the  same  as  for  counterfeit  coinage." 

"  But  what  would  become  of  those  who  must 
borrow  money?  " 

"  Let  the  state  lend  it  to  them  on  the  same  sort 
of  security  as  is  now  demanded  by  those  who 
prosper  so  greatly  at  the  expense  of  the  people." 

"  But  what  would  it  profit  the  thrifty  to  save 
against  age  or  misfortune?  " 

"  The  state  could  borrow  all  savings  at  some  low 
rate  of  interest,  because  the  debt  would  be  safe  for 
the  lender.     His  risk  would  be  nothing,  because  the 
state  would  repay  when  he  wished  it." 
60 


Interest 

"  Oh,"  said  the  rulers,  "  and  the  rate  paid  by 
the  state  would  be  lower  than  that  it  received  on 
its  lending?  " 

"  True,"  said  the  hermit,  "  and  the  difference 
need  not  be  great,  one  or  two  per  cent  on  all  of 
the  loans  in  the  country  would  provide  for  all  its 
expenses,  and  taxes  could  be  decreased  or  abolished, 
and  the  people  would  no  longer  be  subject  to  lend 
ers  of  money,  but  their  whole  allegiance  would  fall 
to  the  state." 

"  And  what  would  become  of  the  lenders  of 
money?  " 

"  Some  of  them  could  be  employed  by  the  state 
at  a  fair  salary  to  lend  out  the  state's  money.  The 
others  could  engage  in  some  business  that  would 
increase  the  real  wealth  of  the  country,  such  as 
manufacturing  or  farming  or  mining  or  building." 

But  the  rulers  decided  that  the  hermit  was  crazy, 
and  cast  him  in  prison. 


61 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


VERITY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  ruler  in  the  dominion  of 
knowledge  summoned  before  him  his  principal 
vassals  and  required  of  each  a  statement  of  plans 
and  of  purpose,  a  reason  for  being.  And  the  names 
of  these  vassals  were  Art  and  Religion  and  Philoso 
phy  and  Science. 

To  the  question  propounded  the  answer  of  Art 
was,  "  I  seek  out  beauty  and  express  it,  to  promote 
human  happiness." 

And  of  Religion,  "  I  seek  out  the  rules  of  right 
conduct  and  explain  them,  to  promote  human 
happiness." 

And  Philosophy  said,  "  I  seek  out  the  truth  and 
divulge  it,  to  promote  human  happiness." 

And  Science  replied,  "  I  seek  out  knowledge  and 
classify  it,  to  promote  human  happiness." 

"  So  all  of  you  are  working  to  promote  human 
happiness?"  said  the  ruler. 

"  Yes,  all  of  us,"  they  answered. 

"  Why,  then,  is  there  not  more  human  happi 
ness?  "  asked  the  ruler. 

"  Because  men  are  lazy,  and  will  not  think,"  an 
swered  Science. 

"  Because  men  are  stupid,  and  can  not  think," 
said  Philosophy. 

"  Because  men  are  blind,  and  can  not  see,"  an 
swered  Art. 

"  Because  men  are  selfish,  and  will  not  sacrifice," 
said  Religion. 

62 


Ferity 

"  So  the  whole  fault  lies  in  men,  and  none  in 
you,"  said  the  ruler. 

"  Yes,"  said  they,  "  the  fault  is  in  men." 

"  Yet,  if  there  were  no  men,  not  a  one  of  you 
would  have  any  excuse  for  being? "  asked  the 
ruler. 

"  No,"  said  they  after  some  hesitation,  "  we 
wouldn't." 

"  Well,"  said  the  ruler,  "  you  have  been  working 
on  men  a  long  time,  and  you  haven't  accomplished 
much,  what  do  you  propose  for  the  future  ?  " 

"  It  is  this  way,"  said  Art,  "  often  when  I  have 
created  something  of  the  greatest  beauty,  Religion 
attacks  and  seeks  to  destroy  it." 

"  And  I,"  said  Philosophy,  "  have  always  been 
thwrarted  and  persecuted  by  that  same  religion." 

"  And  I,"  said  Science,  "  have  been  compelled  by 
Religion  to  fight  for  my  life  in  ceaseless  struggle." 

But  Religion  answered,  "  Art  disregards  me, 
Philosophy  flouts  me,  and  Science  denies  me. 
What  am  I  to  do?  I  must  live." 

The  ruler  pondered.  For  a  long  time  he  sat 
rapt  in  reflection.  At  last  he  spoke,  "  I  have  long 
desired  that  men  should  be  happy.  Most  of  them 
are  not  happy,  and  have  never  been,  hence  this 
conference.  It  is  time  that  some  real  progress 
were  made. 

"  Religion,  you  are  the  oldest,  and  you  have  the 
commonest  fault  of  age,  which  is  intolerance.  All 
of  the  others  are  really  your  children.  They 
sprang  from  you.  It  is  true  that  they  often  fail  in 
filial  reverence,  but  you  have  been  jealous  and 
afraid.  You  have  feared  that  they  would  snatch 
from  you  your  dominion  over  the  hearts  and  minds 
63 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

of  men,  hence  you  have  often  been  harsh,  stubborn, 
and  unreasonable.  For  this  you  deserve  censure. 

"  And  you,  the  rest  of  you  —  Art,  Science,  and 
Philosophy  —  each  of  you  has  sought  at  times  to 
supplant  his  father.  Know  now  for  all  time  that 
that  is  impossible.  It  can  not  be  done.  And 
there  has  been  much  scorn  and  bickering  among 
you,  each  claiming  to  be  greater  than  the  others. 
That  is  foolish.  Stop  it.  All  three  of  you  are 
necessary,  as  also  is  Religion. 

'  The  reason  why  all  of  you  together  have  not 
done  more  for  the  promotion  of  human  happiness, 
is  that  you  have  not  worked  together.  Ultimately 
3rou  must  work  together.  It  is  inevitable.  So 
why  not  begin  now?  You  have  been  as  blind, 
stupid,  and  selfish  as  you  have  said  men  are. 
Haven't  you?" 

"  Perhaps  we  have,"  said  Philosophy  in  their 
common  defense,  "  but  may  I  speak  openly?  " 

"  Proceed,"  said  the  ruler. 

"  Well,  for  some  reason  or  other,  while  working 
for  men,  we  have  been  compelled  to  work  solely 
through  men.  We  have  had  to  depend  on  men  to 
interpret  us,  to  give  us  a  voice.  I  ask  you  is  that 
fair?  Must  it  ever  be  so?  " 

"  Whether  fair  or  not,"  said  the  ruler,  "  it  must 
ever  be  so.  Men  can  understand  only  what  comes 
through  men." 

"  Alas !  "  sighed  they  all,  "  the  time  will  be  long." 


A  King  Among  Men 


A  KING  AMONG  MEN 

ONCE  on  a  time  there  was  a  king  who  coveted 
wider  dominions.  He  looked  all  about  him 
where  lay  the  well-ordered  lands  of  neighboring 
nations,  and  found  them  fair  and  desirable.  So 
in  his  own  heart  he  said  privily,  "  I  will  take 
them." 

He  set  to  work  then  to  raise  a  great  army,  and 
made  every  man  of  his  kingdom  into  a  soldier. 
And  he  gathered  from  the  four  corners  of  his  realm 
a  great  treasure,  and  caused  to  be  forged  number 
less  weapons  of  war.  And  while  this  was  a-doing, 
he  entered  into  covenants  with  all  neighboring 
nations  to  preserve  peace  between  his  people  and 
theirs,  feigning  to  fear  that  some  would  attack  him, 
and  professing  a  love  for  the  blessings  of  peace. 
But  in  his  own  heart  he  said  privily,  "  So  I  will 
blind  them." 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  all  was  ready  —  the 
soldiers,  the  treasure,  and  the  weapons.  And  the 
neighboring  nations  slept  in  a  false  security,  lulled 
by  their  faith  in  the  treaties.  And  the  king  com 
manded  his  armies  to  make  a  sudden  onrush  upon 
the  nearest  of  the  neighboring  nations.  And  this 
they  did,  spreading  death  and  destruction  and 
anguish  and  woe  and  desolation.  And  the  king 
rejoiced  in  his  heart  saying  privily,  "  To  this  I 
will  add  all  of  the  others,  and  rule  over  them  all." 

But  lo!  this  nearest  of  nations  gathered  up  all 
of  its  strength,  and  held  back  the  armies  of  the 
65 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

king  till  other  nations  could  make  ready  and 
assemble  their  hosts  to  defend  their  homes  and 
their  firesides.  And  the  king  was  angered,  and 
commanded  that  the  people  of  the  nearest  of  na 
tions  should  be  tortured  and  starved  and  crucified, 
and  their  women  outraged  and  deflowered.  And 
it  was  done  by  his  soldiers.  And  the  king  rejoiced 
in  his  heart,  saying  privily,  "  So  will  I  strike  terror 
into  all  of  the  others." 

But  the  king  was  mistaken,  for  all  of  the  other 
nations  formed  a  league  against  him,  and  opposed 
him  with  numberless  soldiers  and  countless  weapons 
of  war.  And  multitudes  of  the  soldiers  of  the 
king  were  slain.  And  into  the  realm  of  the  king 
crept  hunger  and  misery  and  death,  insomuch  that 
his  people  began  to  murmur.  Then  the  king  told 
his  people  that  God  was  with  him,  directing  him 
in  all  things.  But  in  his  own  heart  he  said  privily, 
"  There  is  no  God,  but  so  will  I  fool  them,  and 
stir  them  to  still  greater  effort  to  win  for  me  wider 
dominions." 

And  he  did  fool  them.  And  they  made  ever 
greater  sacrifices,  and  strove  ever  more  valiantly  in 
the  name  of  patriotism  and  religion,  believing  that 
they  were  fighting  a  holy  war  and  suffering  for  the 
defense  of  their  country.  And  the  king  gave  them 
iron  crosses  and  medals  for  their  bravery,  and 
praised  them,  calling  them  heroes.  But  in  his  own 
heart  he  said  privily,  "What  fools  they  are!  I 
hold  myself  safe,  and  they  give  up  their  lives  and 
the  lives  of  their  kindred  that  I  may  get  wider 
dominions.  What  fools  they  are!  " 

But  the  time  came  when  the  soldiers  of  the 
neighboring  nations  defeated  and  drove  back  the 
66 


A  King  Among  Men 


armies  of  the  king.     And   the   king's  own  people 
rose  up  against  him,  saying,  "  We  have  been  fools. 
We  have  debauched  ourselves  and   murdered  our 
neighbors.     God  have  mercy  upon  us !  " 
And  they  took  the  king  and  hanged  him. 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


REFLECTION 

A  CERTAIN  honest  man  fell  among  thieves, 
who  beat  him  and  stripped  him  of  all  he  had. 
As  they  divided  their  booty,  the  beaten  man 
groaned  loudly,  and  some  feeling  of  pity  stirred 
their  hearts,  but  it  was  stilled  by  the  oldest  and 
wickedest  among  them,  who  said,  "If  the  truth 
were  known,  he  is  probably  no  better  than  we  are. 
Somehow  or  other  he  stole  what  he  had,  and  I'll 
bet  on  it." 

So  there  was  a  lecher  sitting  in  church  listening 
to  the  sermon  of  a  pious  preacher  famed  for  his 
purity  of  thought  and  life,  and  the  preacher  was 
denouncing  the  sins  of  the  flesh.  The  lecher  \vas 
moved  with  remorse  and  contrition,  but  he  stifled 
them  by  saying  to  himself,  "  If  the  truth  were 
known,  he  is  no  better  than  I  am.  He  is  smoother, 
that's  all.  And  I'll  bet  the  sisters  of  the  church 
could  tell  some  queer  stories  if  they  were  a  mind 
to." 

After  the  service  the  respectable  women  who 
were  in  attendance,  filed  decorously  out  carrying 
their  prayer-books.  And  a  harlot  who  happened 
to  pass  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  saw  them, 
and  was  filled  with  a  feeling  of  shame  and  of 
yearning,  but  she  quelled  it  by  muttering,  "  If  the 
truth  were  known,  they  are  no  better  than  I  am. 
They  haven't  been  found  out,  that's  all,  the  minc 
ing  hypocrites." 

So  a  foul  murderer  stood  before  a  just  and  up- 
68 


Reflection 

right  judge  to  be  sentenced.  And  the  judge  added 
to  the  sentence  some  words  of  commiseration,  and 
his  voice  shook  with  pity  for  the  condemned.  The 
murderer  was  touched  by  the  judge's  sympathy,  and 
felt  some  impulse  to  repentance,  but  he  throttled 
it  by  thinking.  "  If  the  truth  were  known,  he  is 
no  better  than  I  am.  And  he  sits  up  there  pre 
tending  to  be  so  high  and  so  mighty.  May  God 
damn  him!  " 

And  the  man  who  was  robbed  was  honest,  and 
the  preacher  was  pure,  and  the  women  coming  out 
of  the  church  were  chaste,  and  the  judge  was  up 
right  and  just. 

But  each  of  us  looks  at  his  fellows  through  a 
glass  that  is  too  often  merely  a  mirror. 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


TRAGEDY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  husband  who 
suspected  the  fidelity  of  his  wife,  for  she  was 
quite  fond  of  an  officer  accustomed  to  visit  their 
home.  But  soon  after  the  suspicion  arose,  the 
officer  was  ordered  to  a  far  country,  where  he  was 
killed.  So  the  husband  said  nothing. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  wife  bore  a  son. 
Hardly  could  the  husband  restrain  his  anxiety  till 
the  birth  to  examine  the  child's  features,  so  fearful 
was  he  of  his  honor.  He  could  not  wait  for  the 
child  to  be  brought  for  inspection,  but  on  its  first 
wail,  slipped  into  the  room  of  his  wife  to  peer  at 
its  face.  But  that  revealed  nothing.  The  feat 
ures  were  as  yet  undertermined. 

But  the  wife,  though  weakened  by  travail,  was 
aware  of  his  presence,  and  whispered,  "  Oh,  John, 
it  is  a  boy,  and  he  is  your  image." 

Then  at  the  word  of  the  doctor,  the  husband 
retired  from  the  room  and  said  nothing,  but  there 
was  in  him  a  hope  that  the  eye  of  the  mother 
could  detect  a  resemblance  not  apparent  to  him  — 
a  wild  hope,  a  precious  hope. 

Months  went  by,  slipped  into  years,  and  the 
boy's  features  took  shape  and  developed.  Ever  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  wife  to  point  out  to  the 
husband  how  the  boy  was  his  reproduction. 
"  Look  at  his  eyes,"  she  would  say,  "  they  are  yours. 
And  his  mouth  and  his  ears,  his  form  and  com- 
70 


Tragedy 

plexion.  You  ought  to  be  proud.  He  is  you  over 
again." 

And  the  husband  did  look,  but  what  he  saw  was 
quite  different.  Each  passing  month  brought 
clearly  before  him  some  hated  resemblance  to  the 
man  who  was  dead.  There  was  a  trick  of  the 
eye-brow  altogether  exact,  a  curve  of  the  nostril, 
even  a  mode  of  moving  the  hands,  and  shape  of 
the  fingers. 

He  no  longer  had  a  suspicion,  he  was  certain. 
His  wife  had  betrayed  him,  and  was  lying  to  seal 
the  deception.  What  should  he  do?  What  could 
he  do?  He  brought  himself  to  decide  that  what 
ever  was  right  he  would  do  it.  Whatever  it  cost, 
he  would  do  it. 

For  the  woman  he  felt  naught  but  deep  loathing. 
But  there  was  the  child  with  its  life  all  before 
it  —  and  innocent.  Should  it  bear  the  burden  ? 
Was  it  right  that  the  child  should  bear  the  horrible 
burden?  He  could  not  love  the  child.  No,  not 
that.  He  could  not  love  it.  Yet,  the  child  had 
done  no  wrong,  and  ought  never  to  know.  The 
child  must  be  spared  the  fatal  blight  of  that 
knowledge. 

But  how  punish  the  woman  without  hurting  the 
child?  His  mind  busied  itself  with  that  problem, 
but  his  behaviour  was  such  that  the  woman  never 
suspected.  He  caressed  her  as  of  yore,  and  she 
thought  him  a  fool  blinded  by  her  words.  She  re 
joiced  in  her  heart  that  he  was  a  fool  blinded  by 
her  words,  but  fear  slept  with  her,  grisly  fear 
slept  with  her. 

He  might  have  secretly  killed  the  woman,  but 
he  would  not  stain  his  soul,  though  it  were  better 
71 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

for  the  child  to  be  motherless  than  have  such  a 
mother.  He  would  not  stain  his  soul  —  nor  was 
it  in  his  heart  to  help  the  child,  he  could  not  reach 
to  that.  Not  to  hinder  was  all  that  he  could  com 
pass.  That  tried  his  strength  to  the  utmost. 

The  problem  was  never  solved.  He  died.  And 
the  weak  woman,  thinking  on  him,  was  overcome 
with  a  tardy  repentance.  She  felt  the  need  of  con 
fession.  She  yearned  for  confession,  as  aforetime 
she  had  yearned  for  the  officer.  And  she  confessed 
to  the  child.  Oh,  God,  she  confessed  to  the  child ! 


72 


The  Way  to  Forget 


THE  WAY  TO  FORGET 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who  had 
done  many  things  of  which  he  was  ashamed. 
They  were  secret  things,  and  known  to  no  one  else 
in  the  wide  world  save  himself  alone.  Neverthe 
less  he  could  not  shut  them  from  his  memory.  His 
mind  dwelt  on  them  continually.  So  he  became 
restless.  He  could  not  sleep  at  night.  And  in  the 
day  he  could  not  bear  to  be  alone,  but  sought  ever 
to  surround  himself  with  a  crowd,  so  that  his 
thoughts  might  be  diverted  from  the  recollection  of 
the  shameful  deeds. 

But  even  in  the  midst  of  a  company  he  could  not 
wholly  forget.  For  there  would  come  moments  of 
silence  in  even  the  gayest  throng.  So  the  man  was 
dismayed.  He  had  resolved  never  to  confess  to  a 
living  soul,  but  in  himself  he  could  find  no  comfort. 

"  I  will  forget,"  he  would  say,  "  I  will  forget." 
And  he  would  girdr himself  to  the  effort.     But  he, 
could  not  forget. 

At  length  he  realized  that  of  himself  he  could 
not  forget,  but  must  seek  aid  from  some  other. 
And  he  pondered  where  he  should  seek  it.  From 
priest  or  physician?  From  parents  or  friends  or 
the  wife  of  his  bosom? 

But  no,  he  would  not  confess  to  any  of  these. 
He  could  not  bear  for  them  to  know  that  he  had 
been  so  guilty.  He  was  filled  with  despair. 
Should  he  go  to  a  stranger? —  No,  for  the 
stranger  would  have  forever  a  handle  upon  him. 
He  could  not  go  to  a  stranger.  He  dared  not  trust 
any  stranger. 

73 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

One  day  on  the  street  he  encountered  a  beggar, 
an  old  man,  feeble  and  dirty  and  quavering.  And 
the  beggar  was  very  persistent,  catching  the  man 
by  the  sleeve  to  detain  him  and  tell  him  a  tale  of 
privation  and  sadness. 

But  the  man  answered,  "  Your  sorrows  are  noth 
ing.  They  can  be  cured  with  a  pittance,  while 
mine  are  so  great  that  no  money  can  cure  them." 

"  Oh,  come  with  me,"  said  the  beggar. 

And  the  man,  on  the  whim  of  the  moment,  fol 
lowed  the  beggar,  and  was  led  by  the  tottering 
steps  of  the  beggar  to  a  hovel,  where  dwelt  in 
squalid  disease  the  beggar's  old  wife,  betrayed 
daughter,  and  bastard  grand-child. 

"  Look  at  these,"  said  the  beggar,  "  and  at  me." 

"  Oh,  I  must  help  you,"  said  the  man,  "  I  must 
help  you." 

And  straightway  he  sent  for  a  doctor  and  clothes 
and  food  and  a  wagon,  and  women  and  men  to 
wash  these  foul  people  and  clothe  them  in  clean 
ness.  And  he  helped  in  the  task.  All  that  day  he 
spent  in  relieving  them  and  cleaning  them  and  mov 
ing  them  to  comfortable  quarters. 

When  night  came,  he  left  them,  to  return  to  his 
home.  As  he  walked  on  his  way,  all  of  a  sudden 
he  started,  "  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  by  Jove,  I  for 
got!  Oh,  thank  God,  I  forgot!  I  have  found 
it.  I  have  found  it.  I  have  found  the  way  to 
forget.  Oh,  never,  never,  shall  I  forsake  it !  " 

And  afterward  the  man  was  happy,  for  he  was 
ever  piling  acts  of  kindness  on  his  past  deeds  of 
shame,  until  at  last  they  were  quite  covered  up  out 
of  all  sight  of  his  memory. 

74 


The  Remedy 


THE  REMEDY 

ONCE  there  lived  a  man  who  was  deeply  in 
debt,  for  he  and  his  family  spent  more  than 
he  made.  And  the  man  was  harassed  and  be 
wildered.  It  seemed  to  him  that  every  time  he 
paid  a  bill,  two  more  came  in  to  take  the  place  of 
the  paid  one.  And  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  wits. 

'He  hated  to  tell  his  wife  and  his  children,  be 
cause,  after  all,  they  spent  no  more  than  their 
neighbors.  And  the  man  was  afraid  his  wife 
would  think  him  a  failure.  And  he  was  afraid 
also  he  would  lose  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors. 
For  indeed  he  was  proud,  and  had  held  his  head 
as  high  as  the  next  one.  So  he  didn't  know  what 
to  do. 

Life  lost  its  charm  for  him,  and  he  was  fast 
becoming  morose  and  embittered.  This  month  he 
put  off  paying  one  man,  and  the  next  another,  hop 
ing  at  least  to  preserve  some  sort  of  credit,  and 
praying  that  something  might  happen  to  make  his 
business  more  profitable.  He  could  hardly  sleep 
at  night,  and  his  days  were  full  of  dreadful  anxiety. 

"  Oh,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  am  ruined. 
There  is  no  way  out  except  to  increase  my  income 
or  decrease  expenses.  And  neither  of  them  is  for 
me  possible.  Oh,  I  can  not  endure  it." 

The  dark  angel  of  death  peered  over  his  shoulder 
and  whispered,  "  Come  to  me.     I  can  relieve  you, 
free  you  from  worry,  give  you  rest  from  all  care 
and  distresses.     Come  with  me." 
75 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

And  half  was  he  tempted.  But  the  thought  of 
his  family,  how  they  would  fare  worse  then  than 
ever,  withheld  him.  And  at  last  he  decided  that 
he  would  give  up  all  efforts  to  bolster  his  credit 
by  indirect  shifts,  would  be  frank  and  open.  So  he 
sent  word  to  all  whom  he  owed  to  assemble  at  the 
place  of  his  business. 

They  came,  and  he  told  them  the  state  of  his 
business.  They  sat  and  listened.  And  many  of 
them  were  more  experienced  than  the  man  who  was 
deeply  in  debt.  And  when  he  had  finished  telling 
what  he  had  and  he  hadn't,  they  conferred  one  with 
another,  and  appointed  a  spokesman,  who  said  to 
the  man  so  deeply  in  debt,  "  We  have  listened. 
We  thank  you  for  what  you  have  told  us.  We 
are  fully  convinced  that  you  are  quite  honest.  And 
we  believe  it  \vould  be  to  our  profit  to  give  you 
more  time.  The  trouble  with  you,  in  our  judg 
ment,  is  that  you  have  not  conducted  your  busi 
ness  so  as  to  get  the  most  out  of  it." 

And  then  he  went  on  to  make  wise  suggestions. 
And  the  man,  as  he  listened,  wondered  that  he 
never  before  had  thought  of  the  things  that  the 
spokesman  was  saying.  They  seemed  now  so  plain 
and  so  simple.  And  he  could  hardly  refrain  from 
embracing  the  speaker,  as  the  way  out  of  his 
troubles  was  made  clearer  and  clearer. 


A  Commonplace 


A  COMMONPLACE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  man  met  a  woman  who 
lived  in  the  district  set  aside  for  harlots,  and 
he  fell  into  talk  with  her.  She  told  him  some 
things  about  her  past  life,  and  some  things  she  with 
held.  And  some  of  the  things  were  true,  but  many 
of  them  were  untrue,  for  the  woman  was  a  great 
liar. 

She  said  that  she  had  come  of  respectable  parents, 
had  been  well  brought  up  and  educated,  had  sung 
in  a  church  choir,  and  had  been  married  to  a  rich 
man  who  had  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to  fight 
with  the  world  as  best  she  could,  and  that  she 
never  had  harmed  anybody,  and  never  had  done 
any  wrong,  and  had  taken  to  an  evil  life  to  escape 
starvation.  As  she  told  her  tale  she  pitied  herself 
greatly,  and  at  the  end  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

But  the  man  said,  "  Surely  there  must  have  been 
some  reason.  Did  you  love  your  parents  and  obey 
them?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  did." 

"  Did  you  attend  the  church  and  believe  in  its 
teaching?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  did." 

"  Were  you  faithful  to  your  husband  and 
considerate?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was." 

"  Well,"  said  the  man,  "  I  am  puzzled.  You  are 
sure  that  you  harmed  no  one,  and  yet  every  one 
77 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

was  against  you  —  that  is  odd.  But  I  have  a 
suspicion." 

"  You  needn't  be  suspecting  me,"  said  the 
woman,  "  I  don't  care  anything  about  your  sus 
picions.  Take  it  or  leave  it  just  as  I  have  told  it. 
To  hell  with  you." 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  "  you  do  care,  and  you  wish 
to  know  what  that  suspicion  is." 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  woman,  but  she  lingered 
and  did  not  pass  on. 

"  I  suspect,"  said  the  man,  "  that  you  were  al 
ways  trying  to  do  one  thing,  and  your  parents  and 
the  church  and  your  husband  were  always  object 
ing,  and  stood  in  the  way." 

"  You  are  a  liar,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  wasn't." 

"  You  were,"  said  the  man,  "  and  I  know  it." 

"  I  wasn't,'"  said  the  woman,  "  I  never  did  do 
anything  but  try  to  have  a  good  time." 

"Alas!  one  more,"  said  the  man,  and  left  her 
there  wondering. 


The  Search 


THE  SEARCH 

LONG  ago  in  ancient  times  there  was  a  man 
who  travelled  about  looking  for  something. 
He  began  the  quest  early  in  life,  and  it  lasted  to  the 
day  of  his  death,  so  that  he  came  to  be  known  as  the 
greatest  of  travellers.  He  sought  always  one  and 
the  same  thing,  but  he  never  could  find  it. 

He  lay  on  his  death  bed,  and  friends  gathered 
around  to  comfort  him,  "  You  have  travelled 
widely,"  they  said,  "  and  have  seen  much,  and  you 
are  a  wise  man.  It  grieves  our  hearts  to  know 
that  you  must  so  soon  start  on  the  last  great 
journey.  Perhaps  there  is  something  we  can  do, 
some  last  wish  that  we  may  fulfil." 

'  There  is,"  said  the  traveller,  "  but  I  may  con 
fide  it  to  only  one  of  you.  Therefore  I  pray  you 
cast  lots  to  determine  which  one  it  shall  be." 

Lots  were  cast,  and  all  of  the  friends,  except  the 
one  on  whom  the  lot  fell,  withdrew  from  the  room. 
To  him  turned  the  traveller,  and  said,  "  O  friend, 
when  I  was  a  young  man,  Minerva,  the  Goddess 
of  Wisdom,  entrusted  to  me  the  task  of  bestowing 
on  one  of  the  sons  of  men  a  precious  gift,  but  it 
could  be  bestowed  only  on  a  man  of  a  certain  kind, 
and  him  have  I  sought  my  whole  life  through  with 
out  finding.  The  lot  has  fallen  on  you.  Doubt 
less  you  are  chosen  of  the  gods.  Will  you  accept 
the  mission  and  continue  the  search  after  I  shall 
have  been  joined  with  my  fathers?" 

"Must  I  travel  as  widely  as  you?"  asked  the 
friend. 

79 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  That  I  know  not,  "answered  the  traveller,  "  you 
may  find  the  man  to-day  or  to-morrow  or  never. 
You  may  find  him  in  this  city  or  on  some  distant 
plain  or  nowhere,  but  at  any  rate  you  will  be  a 
messenger  of  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  bearing  a 
precious  gift.  Will  not  that  be  honor  sufficient  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  the  friend,  "  I  pray  you 
instruct  me." 

"  When  you  find  the  man,"  said  the  traveller, 
"  you  are  to  deliver  the  gift,  and  he  then  in  turn 
will  become  a  messenger  of  the  Goddess  of  Wis 
dom  and  find  two  more  men  like  himself  and  share 
the  gift  with  them.  And  each  of  these,  two  other 
like  men,  and  share  the  gift  with  them,  and  so  on 
in  broadening  succession,  for  the  gift  is  capable  of 
infinite  division  without  diminution,  as  becometh  a 
gift  of  Minerva.  Or  if  you  fail,  as  I  have  done, 
then  entrust  the  gift  to  a  friend  that  survives  you, 
as  I  now  am  about  to  entrust  it  to  you." 

"What  is  that  gift?"  asked  the  friend. 

"  It  is  the  true  secret  of  happiness,"  answered  the 
traveller,  "  I  have  it  here  traced  on  this  parchment." 

"What  is  that  secret?" 

"  I  know  not.  I  could  never  decipher  it.  It 
can  be  read  only  by  a  man  of  a  certain  description, 
and  him  I  never  could  find." 

"  And  what  sort  of  man  is  that?  " 

"  A  man  who  never  pretends." 

So  from  that  day  to  this,  friend  after  friend  has 
continued  the  search  for  a  man  who  never  pretends, 
but  the  secret  is  still  undeciphered. 


80 


The  Birth-Mark 


THE  BIRTH-MARK 

ALONG  time  ago  there  was  a  man  with  a 
birth-mark,  and  he  fancied  that  the  eye  of 
every  beholder  fell  first  on  this  blemish.  So  he 
was  loth  to  meet  any  strangers.  He  was  shy  and 
reserved  when  he  met  them,  watching  their  faces 
for  the  gleam  of  repulsion  or  pity.  And  on  the 
faces  of  most  he  would  find  it.  As  a  rule,  on  the 
faces  of  men  was  repulsion,  on  the  faces  of  women 
was  pity. 

But  there  came  one  day  a  magician,  who  was 
indeed  a  great  healer,  saying  that  he  could  take 
off  the  birth-mark,  and  leave  the  skin  as  smooth  as 
an  infant's.  And  it  was  done.  But  the  man  was 
told  that  every  year  by  a  given  date  he  must  send 
a  certain  sum  of  money  to  the  magician  in  a  far 
away  city,  or  the  mark  would  return.  He  was 
filled  with  rejoicing,  and  embraced  the  magician, 
calling  him  his  great  benefactor  and  thinking  not 
at  all  of  the  money. 

Then  no  longer  was  there  repulsion  or  pity  in 
the  glance  of  beholders,  for  the  man  was  quite 
handsome.  On  the  faces  of  men  he  saw  admiration 
or  envy,  and  admiration  on  the  faces  of  women. 
So  he  became  bold  and  assertive.  And  he  married 
a  beautiful  woman.  But  as  the  recurring  time 
drew  near  for  the  payment,  a  fear  would  awake  in 
his  bosom  that  he  could  not  raise  the  money  for 
the  magician. 

Year  followed  year  and  he  prospered,  and  al- 
81 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

ways  the  payment  was  duly  sent  to  the  far  away 
city.  And  no  sign  of  the  mark  was  apparent. 
But  at  length  the  time  did  come  when  he  had  not 
the  money.  He  tried  every  way  to  procure  it. 
At  last  it  had  to  be  stolen.  For  this  he  was  ap 
prehended  and  committed  to  prison.  But  he  bore 
no  grudge  against  the  magician. 

Time  rolled  on  in  its  circuit,  and  again  was  at 
hand  the  date  of  the  payment.  But  the  man  was 
in  prison.  The  date  passed,  and  he  sent  no  money. 
For  how  could  he?  And  every  morning  there 
after  he  eagerly  scanned  in  his  broken  bit  of  a  mir 
ror,  his  face,  to  see  if  the  mark  were  returning. 
But  there  was  no  sign.  The  skin  was  still  smooth 
and  unbroken.  And  so  to  the  end  of  his  term  in 
the  prison,  the  mark  never  came  back. 

He  was  released,  but  tarried  not  even  to  visit 
his  beautiful  wife.  He  went  hotfoot  to  the  city 
where  dwelt  the  magician,  and  slew  him.  For  the 
man  with  the  birth-mark  was  human. 


82 


The  Absurdest  of  All  Things 


THE  ABSURDEST  OF  ALL  THINGS 

I  WE  NT  about  seeking  the  absurdest  of  all 
things,  for  the  notion  had  struck  me  that  it 
would  be  amusing  to  witness.  And  I  visited  many 
places  and  saw  many  things  and  persons  and  actions. 
On  several  occasions  I  thought  I  had  found  some 
thing  absurder  than  anything  could  be,  and  each 
time  I  was  tempted  to  rest  and  say,  "  There  is  no 
need  to  go  further,  for  surely  I  have  found  it. 
Nothing  could  be  more  absurd." 

But  as  I  thought  over  each  of  these  things,  I  was 
far  from  content,  for  they  seemed  less  absurd  than 
at  first  I  had  deemed  them.  So  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  find  something  that  would  seem  ever  ab 
surder  the  more  I  should  ponder. 

It  happened  that  my  feet  were  led  into  a  cathe 
dral  rich  with  the  glory  of  canvas  and  crystal  and 
marble.  And  in  the  pulpit  was  preaching  a  pre 
late  in  vestments  ablaze  with  costly  gems  and  stiff 
with  broidery  of  gold  and  of  silver. 

And  of  what  was  he  preaching? —  Why,  of 
the  lowly  Nazarene,  whom  he  claimed  as  exemplar. 
And  I  thought  of  the  Christ,  who  had  but  the 
poorest  of  raiment. 

I  knew  that  the  prelate  lived  in  abundance  on 
the  richest  of  viands.  And  I  thought  of  the  Christ 
and  the  raw  ears  of  corn  plucked  on  a  Sabbath. 

The  prelate,  I  knew,  dwelt  in  a  palace,  and  was 
slavishly  served  by  hired  lackeys.     And  I  thought 
of  the  Christ  with  no  place  to  lay  his  head  and  no 
wages  except  love  to  pay  to  his  servants. 
83 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

I  knew  that  the  prelate  had  gained  his  position 
by  scheming  intrigue.  And  I  thought  of  the 
Christ,  preferring  others  in  honor. 

At  last  my  quest  was  completed,  no  need  to  look 
further.  Here  in  the  church  I  had  found  it  — 
the  absurdest  of  all  things. 

And  it  was  not  amusing.  No,  no,  it  was  not 
amusing. 


Justice 


JUSTICE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  an  expert  accountant  was 
brought  before  a  court  to  be  tried  on  the 
charge  of  stealing  money  from  his  employer.  He 
pleaded  guilty,  because  he  knew  that  the  proof  was 
ready.  So  it  became  the  duty  of  the  judge  to 
pronounce  sentence  upon  him. 

"Is  he  a  good  accountant?"  the  judge  asked 
the  employer. 

"  Most  excellent,  your  honor." 

"Is  he  painstaking  and  accurate?" 

'  That  is  he,  your  honor." 

"  Stand  up,"  said  the  judge  to  the  accountant, 
"  the  state  is  in  need  of  your  service ;  I  appoint  you 
expert  accountant  for  the  commonwealth  at  the 
same  salary  as  you  have  received  from  private  em 
ployers,  and  each  day  you  shall  report  to  a  phy 
sician,  whose  name  I  shall  give  you." 

"  But, —  but,  your  honor,  the  man  has  stolen 
my  money,  am  I  to  have  no  revenge?"  asked  the 
employer. 

"  No,  no  revenge,  but  I  have  not  completed  the 
sentence.  And  out  of  the  salary  the  defendant 
shall  pay  his  employer  in  monthly  installments  all 
that  he  has  stolen  with  full  legal  interest." 

"  But  he  ought  to  be  punished,  it  is  dangerous  to 
let  him  go  free,"  said  the  employer. 

"  The  state  takes  the  risk,"  answered  the  judge, 
"  he  is  one  of  the  state's  children  who  is  mentally 
ill  and  perhaps  we  can  cure  him.  If  he  were  your 
85 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

son  and  had  stolen  your  money,  what  would  you 
do  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  would  prosecute  him  and  send  him  to  prison," 
said  the  employer. 

"  I  sentence  you  to  jail  as  an  unnatural  father," 
answered  the  judge,  "  and  each  day  a  minister 
whom  I  shall  appoint  will  come  to  instruct  you. 
You  are  revengeful,  unfeeling,  and  greedy,  but  you 
too  are  a  child  of  the  state  and  perhaps  we  can 
cure  you." 

But  then  arose  a  great  murmur  from  all  of  the 
lawyers,  because  even  the  oldest  and  most  learned 
among  them  could  remember  no  precedent. 


86 


The  Busy  Imp 


THE  BUSY  IMP 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  miner  who  dug 
into  the  earth,  seeking  pure  gold,  bright,  yellow 
gold.  And  his  mind  was  filled  with  its  glitter. 
At  night  in  his  dreams  he  grasped  with  palsied 
hands  at  lustrous  nuggets  too  large  to  be  lifted, 
and  he  sifted  streams  of  shining  dust  through 
trembling  ringers.  Oh,  gold,  gold,  gold  —  for 
gold  he  toiled  and  sweated.  Not  fatigue,  but  only 
exhaustion,  ever  caused  him  to  rest  from  his  labors. 
And  soon  he  was  digging  again,  seeking  the  gold. 

He  found  it. 

"  Oh,  I  have  found  it !  I  have  found  it !  I 
have  found  it !  "  he  shrieked  in  mad  joy,  "  I  have 
found  it." 

There  in  the  lone  wilderness  he  shrieked  with 
mad  joy,  as  if  he  would  tell  all  the  world  he  had 
found  it.  He  capered  about  at  the  head  of  the 
pit,  waving  his  arms  and  shrieking,  "  I  have  found 
it!" 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  he  heard  a  voice  say,  a 
calm,  piping  voice,  "What  of  it?  " 

Sitting  on  top  of  the  dump  was  an  imp,  a  cool, 
passionless  imp.  The  miner's  jaw  dropped  as  he 
saw  him. 

"  The  way  you  carry  on,"  said  the  imp,  "  one 
would  think  that  you  are  the  first  man  who  ever 
found  any  gold.  There  have  been  many  others. 
And  in  time  the  gold  has  made  precious  fools  of 
most  of  them.  But  you  leave  it  little  work  for 
the  future.  You  seem  already  demented." 
87 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"Ha!"  said  the  miner,  "ha!" 

"  Is  that  the  best  you  can  do?  "  asked  the  imp. 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  stammered  the  miner, 
"  the  fact  is,  I  wasn't  expecting  to  see  you." 

"  No,"  said  the  imp,  "  but  I  always  come  to  the 
sudden  discoverer  of  riches.  That  is  my  business." 

"  Oh,  it  is,"  said  the  miner,  "  I  didn't  know  that. 
What  do  you  come  for?" 

"  I  come  to  suggest  various  ways  of  spending  the 
money,"  said  the  imp.  "  They  never  would  know 
what  to  do  with  their  money,  if  I  didn't  make  the 
suggestions." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  the  miner,  "  I  am  very  much 
obliged,  but  I  don't  need  your  suggestions.  I  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do  with  my  money." 

"Oh,  you  do?"  said  the  imp,  "May  I  ask 
what?" 

"  Well,  I  have  a  great  many  poor  relatives,  and 
I  am  going  to  make  all  of  them  independent,"  said 
the  miner. 

"Oh,  you  are?"  sneered  the  imp,  "That's  all 
right,  but  they  are  used  to  being  poor.  And  the 
chances  are  that  they  will  quarrel  over  the  money 
you  give  them,  and  hate  you  for  giving  more  to 
one  than  another,  or  less,  or  the  same  amount." 

"  And  then  I  am  going  to  build  a  hospital  for 
sick  children  in  my  native  town,"  said  the  miner. 

"  Fine,"  said  the  imp,  "  fine,  but  there  are  plenty 
of  hospitals  already,  and  there  are  not  very  many 
sick  children  in  your  native  town  anyway,  and  none 
of  them  ever  did  anything  for  you,  that's  plain." 

"  And  I  am  going  to  find  poor  but  deserving 
young  men,  and  pay  for  their  education." 

"  Good,   good,"  said   the  imp,   "  but  you   didn't 


The  Busy  Imp 

have  much  education,  and  here  you  are  a  rich  man, 
and  you  have  made  your  own  money.  Look  at 
the  boys  that  you  grew  up  with  and  that  were 
educated.  Not  a  one  of  them  has  made  as  much 
as  you  have." 

"  And  I  will  save  out  just  enough  money  for  my 
self  to  live  in  modest  comfort,"  added  the  miner. 

"  I  told  you  in  the  beginning  you  were  a  fool," 
said  the  imp.  "  You  might  save  up  your  money 
and  have  the  whole  countryside  envying  you  and 
pointing  you  out  as  the  richest  man  there.  And 
a  whole  lot  of  pleasure  is  to  be  got  out  of  women 
and  wine,  but  I  see  there  is  no  use  in  making  sug 
gestions  to  you.  If  a  man  hasn't  sense  enough  to 
look  out  for  himself,  nobody  can  help  him,  so 
good-bye!  " 

The  imp  flitted  away.  The  miner  stared  after 
him. 

At  length  the  miner  recovered  his  poise.  And 
he  thought  then  after  this  fashion,  "  The  imp  is 
right.  I  have  toiled  and  slaved  and  sweated  for 
this  gold.  Those  others,  they  have  done  nothing. 
Why  should  I  give  it  to  them?  Bah,  I  was  a  fool 
ever  to  think  it.  Every  man  for  himself,  that  is 
the  doctrine." 

The  imp,  reading  thought  from  afar,  laughed 
aloud,  as  he  said  to  himself,  "  It  is  easy,  so  easy, 
just  too  dead  easy." 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  SON  OF  MAN 

THE  good  abbot  called  to  him  one  of  the 
brethren  whom  he  loved  most  dearly,  and 
said,  "  O  Brother  Aloysius,  I  am  deeply  distressed 
because  I  am  persecuted  asleep  and  awaking  by  a 
vision  of  a  band  of  heretics  doomed  by  the  church  to 
be  purged  by  the  ordeal  of  fire.  In  the  vision  they 
are  marching  on  their  way  to  the  place  of  purga 
tion,  and  are  chanting:  — 

1 '  O  Christ,  thou  darling  of  the  ages,  what  have 
they  done  to  thee?  They  have  made  of  thee  a  god 
and  have  taken  away  the  merit  of  thy  suffering. 
What  were  three  and  thirty  years  to  a  god?  —  A 
moment  in  boundless  eternity,  a  fleeting  moment, 
inconsiderable!  But  to  our  dear,  human,  elder 
brother  it  was  a  life  time. 

'  What  were  scourging  and  crucifixion  to  a 
god?  —  A  god  would  know  that  for  him  endless 
bliss  and  power  would  follow.  A  god  would  have 
knowledge.  A  god  wTould  straightway  ascend  to 
rule  over  the  infinite  hosts  of  Heaven,  and  would 
know  it.  But  a  man,  a  human,  one  of  our  family, 
what  would  he  know  during  the  agony?  The 
future  would  be  dark  to  him.  It  would  be  lit  only 
by  the  candle  of  faith.  Ah,  he  would  need  to  be 
brave.  O  thou  dear  one,  thou  wert  brave.  We 
love  thee  for  thy  bravery. 

1  What  were  goodness  to  a  god  ?  —  He  could 
not   help   being   good,   or   he  were  no   god.     His 
nature  would  compel  him  to  be  good.     Not  even 
90 


The  Son  of  Man 


a  god  could  conceive  of  any  true  god  as  doing  evil. 
But  thou,  thou  holy  man,  thou  wert  tempted  even 
as  we.  Oh,  thou  didst  know  the  urge  of  passion, 
of  envy,  of  avarice,  of  scorn.  Thou  didst  feel 
them  even  as  we.  And  glory  to  God  in  the  high 
est!  thou  didst  show  us  that  human  strength  can 
conquer  them  all  —  just  human  strength.  For  a 
god  to  overcome  them  would  avail  us  nought.  We 
can  not  hope  to  rival  a  god. 

1 '  O  Christ,  they  have  made  of  thee  a  god,  and 
with  that  they  bolster  up  their  power.  Self-ap 
pointed  spokesmen,  they  claim  to  speak  for  thee. 
So  forsooth  their  words  have  a  divine  authority. 
They  have  but  little  faith  in  humanity,  or  they 
seek  some  selfish  end  —  and  they  fail  in  deeds, 
no  less  than  we.  But  thou,  thou  Son  of  Man,  thou 
didst  prove  and  sanctify  thy  words  with  holy  deeds. 
And  words  and  deeds  called,  and  do  call,  to  the 
deeps  within  us,  and  our  love  answers.  There  is 
no  other  warrant  needed. 

1 '  O  child  of  the  great  Father,  even  as  we,  thy 
brothers,  are  children,  accept  our  love.  Know  that 
we  hold  thee  in  our  heart  of  hearts.  We  too  would 
deify  thee,  if  our  love  forbade  us  not.  But  we 
seek  not  power  or  profit.  We  want  no  dominion 
over  the  minds  of  our  brothers  and  thine.  We 
would  have  their  love,  not  their  tithes,  not  their 
obeisances.  If  this  is  self-righteousness,  we  know 
it  not.  We  bare  our  souls  to  thee.  Oh,  we  would 
worship  God,  the  Father,  as  didst  thou.  We 
would  be  thy  fellow-worshipers.  And  we  believe 
that  thou  wouldst  wish  our  love,  not  our  worship. 

1 '  God  grant  that  we  wrong  not  thy  dear 
memory!  Thou  hast  spoken,  acted,  lived.  Thou 
91 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

hast  made  clear  to  us,  all  that  thou  couldst  ex 
plain.  We  ask  of  thee  no  further  light.  Thy 
dear  lips,  as  ours  will  be,  are  sealed  in  death.  But 
we  believe  with  thee  that  the  grave  hath  not  an 
endless  victory.  After  it  are  the  many  mansions 
of  our  common  Father.  In  them  shall  we  meet 
with  thee,  and  learn  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death, 
and  hear  all  of  thy  sad,  sweet,  glorious  history. 

"  '  O  God  in  the  highest,  O  Father  of  him  and 
of  us,  hear  our  humble  prayers.'  " 

"  But  surely,  reverend  father,"  said  Aloysius, 
"  theirs  is  a  most  damnable  heresy.  They  deny  the 
Holy  Trinity." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Aloysius,  theirs  is  a  damnable  heresy, 
yet  I  could  wish,  I  could  wish  —  no,  I  thank  thee, 
Aloysius,  theirs  is  a  most  damnable  heresy,  and 
their  souls  should  be  purged  of  it.  I  thank  thee, 
Aloysius." 


92 


The  Poor  Preacher 


THE  POOR  PREACHER 

IN  a  country  not  so  very  far  away  there  was  a 
preacher  poor  in  this  world's  goods,  and  he  had 
a  family.  As  he  preached  from  the  pulpit,  his 
eye  would  ever  seek  out  from  among  the  congre 
gation  assembled  before  him  the  eye  of  one  certain 
member.  The  eye  sought  out  was  cold  and  in 
different,  but  it  drew  the  eye  of  the  preacher  like  a 
magnet. 

And  from  time  to  time  the  wife  of  the  preacher 
would  turn  her  head  to  catch  the  eye  of  that  certain 
member,  the  eye  that  was  cold  and  indifferent.  It 
was  a  dull,  muddy  eye,  but  the  wife  of  the  preacher 
could  not  forbear  to  look  at  it  often.  And  then 
for  the  merest  fraction  of  time  her  eye  would  seek 
and  meet  the  eye  of  her  husband,  and  his  sermon 
would  change  its  tone  or  its  tenor. 

One  might  think  that  the  wife  and  her  husband 
had  talked  before  service  —  before  every  service  — 
about  that  certain  member  whose  eye  was  cold  and 
indifferent.  And  they  had.  One  might  hope  that 
the  wife  and  her  husband  had  conspired  with  all 
tenderness  to  kindle  in  the  eye  that  was  cold  and 
indifferent  the  light  of  the  love  of  their  Master 
and  of  his  children,  their  poor  fellow  mortals. 
But  they  hadn't. 

When   the  service  was  over,  both  the  preacher 

and  his  wife  were  sure  to  shake  the  hand  of  that 

certain  member,  and  to  say  pleasant  things  to  him. 

And   they   inquired   with   much   feeling  about   his 

93 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

health  and  his  family.  And  though  they  didn't 
mention  it,  they  hoped  quite  sincerely  that  he  had 
not  been  displeased  by  anything  that  the  preacher 
had  said. 

On  reaching  their  home,  the  wife  would  say  to 
the  preacher,  "  Pray  be  more  careful.  If  you  go 
on  the  way  you  have  done,  you  may  hurt  his 
feelings." 

And  the  preacher  would  reply,  "  Oh,  no,  I  don't 
think  so,  he  is  really  broad-minded.  There  are 
some  things  I  must  say  as  a  preacher  of  the  gospel, 
and  he  will  know  how  to  take  them." 

If  any  should  wonder  why  the  preacher  and  his 
wife  were  so  deeply  concerned  about  that  certain 
member  and  were  so  anxious  to  please  him,  perhaps 
the  wonder  will  vanish  when  it  is  known  that 
among  all  of  the  members  he  was  the  richest. 


94 


Secrets 


SECRETS 

LONG,  long  ago  there  was  a  rich  old  man  who 
went  out  a-wooing,  and  bought  himself  a  wife, 
who  was  both  young  and  pretty.  When  he  offered 
his  hand  and  his  heart  and  his  money,  the  woman 
told  him  that  she  didn't  love  him.  But  he  said 
that  didn't  matter,  he  was  sure  she  would  learn  to, 
and  if  she  didn't,  she  would  at  least  be  his  wife, 
and  it  was  a  wife  that  he  wanted.  So  the  bargain 
was  struck. 

Some  months  after  the  wedding  there  came  an 
inevitable  lover,  so  that  the  rich  old  man  suffered 
from  jealousy,  and  repented  his  bargain.  But  he 
didn't  know  how  to  get  even,  for  if  he  divorced 
her,  he  would  still  have  to  give  her  a  part  of  his 
fortune.  But  he  was  a  shrewd  old  man,  and  never 
had  given  up  a  problem  that  involved  the  saving 
of  money.  So  he  thought  and  he  thought  and  he 
thought. 

At  last  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  I  observe  that  you 
have  a  lover." 

And  she  answered,  "  What  had  you  a  right  to 
expect?  I  told  you  that  I  didn't  love  you." 

'  True,"  said  the  man,  "  but  I  bought  you,  and 
I  have  paid  a  high  price,  and  it  is  my  purpose  to 
keep  you." 

The  woman  laughed  in  his  face,  and  retorted, 
"  You  can't  buy  a  wife.  It  is  foolish  to  think  it." 

But  the  old  man  was  not  at  the  end  of  his 
tether,  for  he  went  to  a  witch  who  told  him  a 
95 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

secret  and  gave  him  an  ointment.  And  at  night 
when  his  wife  was  a-sleeping,  he  lightly  anointed 
her  hands  and  her  face  with  the  ointment.  And 
the  consequence  was  that  when  she  awakened,  she 
discovered  that  she  was  splotched  with  a  hideous 
color.  And  it  wouldn't  come  off  with  washing  or 
rubbing. 

For  days  and  days  she  put  off  her  lover  and 
wouldn't  allow  him  to  see  her.  But  at  last  the 
rich  old  man  wrote  him  a  note  to  invite  him  to 
dinner.  He  came,  and  was  shocked  beyond  meas 
ure  to  see  the  hideous  color.  And  as  soon  as  he 
could,  he  fled,  and  came  back  no  more. 

And  the  rich  old  man  was  delighted,  but  he  told 
his  wife  of  the  witch  who  could  cure  her.  And 
the  wife  went  at  once  to  the  witch,  who  took  off 
the  ointment,  but  she  told  the  young  wife  that  the 
discoloration  was  but  the  outward  sign  of  the 
illicit  love  that  she  harbored,  and  that  it  would  re 
turn  if  she  were  ever  again  guilty. 

This  alarmed  the  young  wife,  and  for  a  while 
she  restrained  her  affections.  But  at  length  she 
conquered  her  fear  and  began  another  flirtation. 
And  again  the  same  thing  happened,  for  the  rich 
old  man  kept  his  eyes  open.  And  the  young  wife 
believed  the  words  of  the  witch,  so  she  hardly 
dared  think  of  any  other  man  except  her  old 
husband. 

The  secret  that  the  witch  told  the  rich  old  man 
was  this:  "  For  some  reason  or  other  an  illicit  love 
for  a  woman  will  never  survive  the  woman's 
complexion." 

But  alas!    the    days   of    witches   are    gone,    and 
women  now  know  all  of  their  secrets. 
96 


The  Sinners 


THE  SINNERS 

THERE  was  a  man  who  betrayed  his  friend's 
wife,  and  every  time  they  sinned,  their  hearts 
were   filled   with   dread   till   they   could   again   see 
the  husband   and  friend,   for  they  would  know  if 
he  suspected. 

The  man  would  say  to  the  wife,  "  When  you 
saw  him,  did  he  suspect  anything?  " 

And  the  woman  would  answer,  "  No,  he  didn't 
suspect." 

In  a  little  while  then  the  wife  would  ask,  "  Do 
you  think  he  suspects  anything?" 

And  the  man  would  say,  "  No,  I  don't  think  he 
ever  suspects." 

And  so  over  and  over  again,  at  each  of  their 
meetings,  the  question  was  asked  and  the  answer 
was  given,  and  it  was  ever  the  same.  But  all  of 
the  asking  and  answering  could  never  quiet  the 
dread. 

On  the  street,  in  his  office,  at  the  club,  the  man 
could  not  rest.  He  must  go  see  his  friend,  to 
determine  the  matter.  Always  he  dreaded  to  go, 
but  anxiety  drove  him.  He  must  go  to  see  him. 

And  the  wife,  waiting  at  home,  anxiously 
scanned  the  face  of  her  husband  at  each  return  from 
his  business.  She  dreaded  his  coming,  but  she 
longed  for  it,  because  she  must  know,  know,  know! 
And  she  was  kinder  and  tenderer  towards  him. 
She  made  a  screen  out  of  tenderness  behind  which 
to  hide  the  guilt  of  her  passion. 
97 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

The  man  and  the  wife,  when  they  were  together, 
were  voluble  in  love,  and  swore  to  each  other  that 
their  passion  was  pure,  was  sent  of  God,  to  fill 
them  with  joy.  And  often  they  spoke  of  unutter 
able  bliss.  Often  he  would  look  into  the  eyes 
whose  glances  of.  love  were  vowed  to  another,  and 
swear  that  he  was  the  happiest  of  mortals.  And 
she,  she  would  say,  "  Oh,  my  darling,  how  I  love 
you!  How  happy  you  make  me!  Your  love  is  so 
wonderful.  Oh,  you  make  me  so  happy!  " 

So  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  they 
vowed  and  protested  that  each  made  a  heaven  on 
earth  for  the  other,  and  that  they  dwelt  in  that 
heaven  amid  unspeakable  blisses. 

But  the  truth  was,  they  lived  in  hell,  and  they 
knew  it. 


God's  Law 


GOD'S  LAW 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  physician  who 
dwelt  with  his  four  stalwart  sons  and  two 
lovely  daughters  in  a  spacious  home  on  a  height 
adjoining  a  city.  And  it  happened  that  a  pesti 
lence  spreading  through  the  land  came  in  its  awful 
progress  to  this  city  where  dwelt  the  physician. 

The  citizens  were  attacked,  and  died  by  scores 
and  by  hundreds,  but  it  was  noticed  that  the  rav 
ages  were  greatest  in  low-lying  regions  near  swamps 
or  depressions.  And  the  idea  became  current  that 
the  pestilence  could  not  climb  to  a  height,  but  must 
confine  its  destruction  to  the  murky  air  of  the 
lowlands. 

So  the  physician,  kind  and  benevolent,  threw 
open  his  home  to  the  stricken,  made  of  it  a  hospital 
for  the  cure  and  the  comfort  of  those  whom  the 
malady  had  smitten,  brought  in  as  many  as  the 
home  could  hold  from  cellar  to  attic.  And  he  and 
his  sons  and  his  daughters  tended  the  sick  by  day 
and  by  night  with  unwearying  patience. 

Oh,  but  then  the  stalwart  sons,  one  after  an 
other,  were  themselves  stricken.  The  pestilence 
was  pitiless.  Human  strength  could  avail  naught 
against  it.  All  of  the  sons  died,  died  in  the  home 
that  was  thought  to  be  safe,  so  high  was  it  placed 
above  the  regions  around,  where  the  pestilence  had 
raged.  The  skill  of  the  father,  the  care  of  the 
sisters  was  fruitless. 

The  physician  was  stricken  with   grief,  bowed    • 
99 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

down  with  sorrow,  and  in  the  throes  of  his  anguish 
he  cried  out  to  God,  "  O  heavenly  Father,  what 
have  I  done  that  thy  hand  hath  fallen  so  heavily 
upon  me?  What  have  I  done?  Hast  thou  not 
told  us  to  comfort  and  succor  the  sick  and  the  sor 
rowful?  Hast  thou  not  enjoined  upon  us  compas 
sion  and  mercy  and  kindness?  Hast  thou  not 
promised  to  reward  us  for  deeds  of  benevolence  and 
brotherly  love?  And  yet,  and  yet  I  took  into  my 
very  home  those  sorely  afflicted.  I  tended  and 
nursed  them.  I  gave  them  my  time  and  my  labor, 
my  food  and  my  shelter.  I  spent  my  strength  for 
them,  and  the  strength  of  my  sons  and  my  daugh 
ters.  And  what  is  my  recompense  ?  —  I  am  left 
desolate,  desolate  in  my  old  age.  All  of  my  sons 
have  been  taken.  Couldst  thou  not  have  left  me 
one?  Oh,  if  I  have  been  a  great  sinner,  couldst 
thou  not  have  left  me  one?  O  God,  what  crime 
is  it,  what  unforgivable  crime  is  it  that  I  have 
committed?  For  what  have  I  been  so  grievously 
punished  ?  " 

God  had  answered  the  prayer  before  it  was 
uttered,  but  the  physician  thought  that  God  did 
not  answer,  that  neither  by  word  nor  by  sign  did 
God  answer. 

Cold  weather  came,  and  the  pestilence  passed, 
disappeared  throughout  the  whole  country.  Years 
came  and  went.  The  physician  lived  on,  but  the 
light  of  life  had  gone  out  for  him  and  his  daugh 
ters.  They  could  take  no  joy,  but  felt  they  were 
scourged  by  the  anger  of  God.  And  there  were 
those  who  whispered  that  the  physician  must  have 
been  guilty  of  some  secret  sin,  but  there  were  others 
whose  hearts  were  filled  with  love  and  with  pity. 

TOO 


God's  Law 

After  a  long,  long  time  a  scientist  discovered 
God's  law  of  the  pestilence.  And  the  law  was 
merely  that  the  malady  was  spread  by  mosquitoes. 
The  physician  didn't  know  that.  He  had  not 
offended,  but  he  knew  not  the  law  of  the  pestilence. 

God's  answer  to  him  was  the  same  as  it  has 
been  and  will  be  to  the  rest  of  his  creatures  through 
all  of  the  ages,  "  Discover  my  law." 


101 


A 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


BARE  GIFTS 

YOUNG  man,  rich  and  compassionate,  came 
crying,  "  What  shall  I  do  to  save  my  fellow 
men?" 

And  he  was  answered,  "  Sell  all  thou  hast,  and 
give  to  the  poor,  and  come,  follow  me." 

So  straightway  he  went  to  his  home,  and  caused 
his  steward  to  make  a  reckoning  of  all  that  he  had, 
and  sold  it,  and  gave  the  price  thereof  to  be  dis 
tributed  to  the  poor.  And  he  returned  unto  the 
Master  and  said,  "  Lo,  I  am  ready  to  follow  thee." 

And  the  Master  led  him  to  a  hovel,  where  dwelt 
a  poor  family,  saying,  "  Here  shall  we  abide  for 
the  night,  and  share  the  crust  and  the  straw  of 
these  people." 

"  Nay,  but  Master,"  said  the  young  man,  "  the 
place  is  dirty,  and  the  people  are  foul  and  low-born. 
I  have  near  at  hand  a  friend,  shall  we  not  rather 
tarry  for  the  night  in  his  house?  In  the  morning, 
if  need  be,  we  can  return,  and  I  will  send  for  my 
steward  and  my  servants  to  make  this  place  clean." 

"  If  thou  shouldst  send  for  thy  steward  and  thy 
servants,  they  would  not  come,"  answered  the 
Master,  "  for  they  have  nothing  more  to  expect 
from  thee.  And  moreover  they  withheld  a  por 
tion  of  thy  money,  and  did  not  give  all  to  the  poor, 
as  thou  didst  direct,  and  to-day  are  they  drunken, 
and  they  laugh  when  they  speak  of  thee,  saying 
that  thou  art  a  fool." 

The  young  man  was  greatly  cast  down,  for  his 
102 


Bare  Gifts 

steward  and  servants  had  seemed  to  him,  very 
faithful.  Hardly  could  he  pluck  up  heart  to  say, 
"  But  surely  will  my  friend  harbor  us  for  the  night. 
We  need  not  stay  in  this  sty." 

"  Still  art  thou  blind,"  answered  the  Master. 
"  Thou  didst  come  to  me  crying,  '  How  shall  I 
save  my  fellow  men  ?  '  and  I  would  show  thee  the 
way.  Thou  hast  given  all  thy  possessions  save  one. 
That  thou  wilt  not  give." 

"  And  what,  pray,  is  that  possession  I  have  not 
given?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"  It  is  thyself,"  said  the  Master. 


103 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


THE  STINGY  MAN 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  dwelt  in  a  town  a  man 
who  was  very  stingy,  and  he  was  disliked  by 
all  of  his  neighbors.  They  said  he  was  the  meanest 
man  in  the  world.  But  it  happened  that  a 
preacher,  wise  and  experienced  in  the  workings  of 
the  human  heart,  came  to  live  in  that  town. 

The  preacher  was  told  about  the  stingy  man. 
Indeed  he  heard  from  all  sides  how  mean  and 
stingy  the  man  was.  But  to  all  informants  the 
preacher  replied  with  a  smile,  "  Perhaps  you  don't 
know  how  charitable  he  is  in  secret." 

That  was  all  he  said  in  words,  but  his  smile 
seemed  to  intimate  that  he  knew  something  he 
could  not  divulge.  And  he  repeated  this  so  often 
and  to  so  many  people,  while  showing  himself  so 
wise  and  so  well  informed  about  other  things,  the 
neighbors  began  to  think  that  possibly  they  had 
indeed  misjudged  the  stingy  man.  And  there  got 
to  be  a  good  deal  of  gossip  about  the  sums  that  the 
stingy  man  gave  away  in  secret.  And  they  treated 
him  with  a  new  respect  and  consideration. 

The  stingy  man  could  not  fail  to  notice  this 
new  respect,  so  he  began  to  think  that,  after  all, 
his  neighbors  were  good  and  deserving  people,  and 
he  felt  that  he  ought  to  do  something  for  them. 
So  one  day,  quite  unexpectedy  to  her,  he  gave  a 
little  poor  girl  on  the  street  a  penny.  And  it 
happened  that  she  told  the  preacher.  As  occasion 
offered,  the  preacher  spread  it  around  that  the 
stingy  man  had  been  quite  generous  to  a  little  poor 
104 


The  Stingy  Man 


girl,  who  had  been  in  dire  need  of  charity.  And 
the  people  felt  still  more  respect  for  the  stingy 
man,  and  his  generosity  was  magnified  in  the  whole 
community. 

But  the  preacher  told  everybody  that  he  had 
talked  with  the  stingy  man  —  as  he  really  had  — 
and  went  on  to  say,  "  He  is  very  peculiar,  and  will 
not  give  anything  to  anybody  who  asks  him,  for 
he  believes  that  giving  should  be  done  as  the  spirit 
moves  him.  So  don't  ask  him." 

Whenever  a  collection  of  any  kind  was  taken 
up  in  that  town  thereafter,  nobody  asked  the 
stingy  man  to  contribute.  At  first  he  was  gratified, 
thinking  that  he  had  escaped  the  notice  of  the  col 
lectors,  but  as  time  went  on  and  nobody  ever  asked 
him  to  give  anything,  he  felt  slighted.  And  at 
last  he  asked  why  no  one  ever  came  to  him  for  a 
contribution.  He  was  answered  that  everybody 
knew  he  gave  in  secret  all  he  could  afford.  And 
the  answer  was  given  in  such  sincerity  that  he 
could  not  doubt  the  belief  of  the  speaker.  And 
he  went  home  thinking. 

On  the  morrow  he  hunted  up  the  collector,  and 
offered  him  a  sum  of  money.  But  the  collector 
replied,  "  No,  we  can  not  accept  so  much  from  you. 
It  is  more  than  your  proportion,  but  if  you  insist, 
we  will  let  you  give  us  half  of  that." 

The  stingy  man  thought  he  was  dreaming,  but 
gave  the  half,  and  fell  straightway  to  musing.  And 
soon  thereafter  he  visited  the  preacher,  and  said 
to  him,  "  I  feel  that  I  have  not  done  my  share 
in  contributing  to  the  charities  of  this  community, 
and  I  wish  that  hereafter  you  would  count  me  in 
on  things  of  that  kind." 

105 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  Oh,  my  dear  brother,"  said  the  preacher, 
"  almost  ever  since  I  came  here,  I  have  heard  from 
all  sides  about  your  giving  in  secret.  And  we  do 
not  like  to  burden  a  generous  heart  too  greatly." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  stingy  man,  "  I  can 
afford  to  give  more,  and  I  wish  to  do  it.  So  please 
don't  neglect  me." 


106 


Why? 


WHY? 

FATHER,    what    of    the    human    heart? 
What  is  it  most  like?"  asked  the  neophyte. 

And  the  prophet,  answering,  spake,  "  Most  often 
I  think  of  the  human  heart  as  a  vine  sending  forth 
its  tendrils  in  every  direction  seeking  support.  For 
it  can  not  stand  alone." 

"  And  these  tendrils,  what  are  they?  " 

"  The  tendrils  —  they  are  the  passions,  the  feel 
ings.  One  is  love,  we  shall  say.  It  is  put  forth 
from  the  vine,  weak,  tender,  an  easy  prey  to  the 
frost,  to  the  heat.  It  reaches  out,  finds  its  mark. 
Wraps  itself  about,  grows  ever  stronger  —  if  it 
survives  —  and  supports  the  vine.  But  there  is 
also  the  tendril  of  hate.  Its  growth  is  the  same. 
An  old  hate  —  how  strong  it  is!  And,  my  son, 
mark  me  well." 

"Yes,  father." 

"  While  these  tendrils  support  the  vine,  they  also 
hold  it  in  place,  rigid.  The  young  vine  is  blown 
here  and  there  by  the  breeze,  or  the  light  touch  of 
the  gardener  bends  and  directs  it.  But  when  old, 
innumerable  tendrils  have  bound  it  fast,  it  is 
immovable." 

"  And  what  is  the  soil  out  of  which  the  vine 
grows?  " 

"  The  soil  is  but  the  record  and  residue  of  past 
deeds  from  which  the  heart  must  draw  much  of  its 
strength." 

"  Not  all,  not  all  of  its  strength  ?  " 
107 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  No,  the  vine  must  reach  upward  to  the  air 
above  it,  and  draw  also  from  that." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  father,  the  human  heart  must  reach 
upward.  But  who  is  the  gardener?  " 

"  I  am  a  gardener,  an  under-gardener  of  thy 
heart  and  of  some  others.  But  there  is  one  great 
Gardener,  whose  directions  I  would  follow,  but 
alas!  I  sometimes  fail  through  lack  of  skill  or  in 
telligence  or  will." 

'  Nay,  nay,  father,  thou  art  near  perfection." 

"  No,  neither  I  nor  anything  human. —  But  the 
fruit  of  the  vine,  that  is  chief.  Remember  that  it 
is  for  the  fruit  that  the  vine  is  tended.  That  should 
be  sweet  and  luscious,  affording  joy  and  sustenance 
to  the  sons  of  men.  God  grant  that  I  may  so  tend 
the  vines  entrusted  to  my  keeping." 

"  Yes,  father,  but  I  have  heard,  and  is  it  not 
true,  that  from  the  fruit  of  the  vine  is  made  a 
potion  that  steals  away  the  minds  of  men  and  cor 
rupts  them  ?  " 

"  Yea,  that  is  true.  Likewise  is  it  true  that  the 
best  fruits  of  the  human  heart  are  perverted  by 
greed  and  tyranny." 

"  Father,  speak  more  plainly.  I  do  not 
understand." 

"  Fruits  of  the  human  heart  are  deeds.  And 
alas!  in  the  church  the  shining  deeds  of  blessed 
martyrs  are  distilled  into  superstition,  for  the  profit 
of  priests;  and  in  the  state,  the  glorious  deeds  of 
patriots  into  false  ideals  of  loyalty,  for  the  power 
of  kings." 

"But,  father,  is  that  the  end?  Shall  it  always 
be  so?" 

"  No,  my  son,  that  is  not  the  end.     The  great 
1 08 


Wkyt 

Gardener  will  not  permit  that  to  be  the  end.  He 
will  change  that,  is  changing  that,  but  by  proc 
esses  that  are  slow." 

"  Father,  why  are  those  processes  slow?  " 
"  Oh,  God,  why  are  they  slow  ?  Why  are  they 
slow?  Oh,  my  son,  I  know  not.  Oh,  they  seem 
so  slow;  I  don't  know,  my  son,  I  don't  know. 
But  leave  me  now,  I  must  pray.  Oh,  God,  I  must 
pray." 


109 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


NOT  IN  SO  MANY  WORDS 

ONCE  there  was  a  man  who  wanted  to  know 
what  was  the  truth.     So  he   asked   a  priest. 
And  the  priest  said,  "  Thus  and  so  is  the  truth." 

And    the    man    said,"  If    I    believe    that,    what 
then?" 

And   the  priest  answered,   "  You   will   join   my 
church." 

Then    the    man    asked    a    politician.     And    the 
politician  said,  "  Thus  and  so  is  the  truth." 

And    the    man   said,    "  If    I    believe   that,   what 
then?" 

And  the  politician  answered,  "  You  will  join  my 
party." 

Then  the  man  asked  a  merchant.     And  the  mer 
chant  said,  "  Thus  and  so  is  the  truth." 

And    the   man   said,    "  If    I    believe   that,    what 
then?" 

And  the  merchant  answered,  "  You  will  buy  my 
goods." 

Then  the  man  asked  a  woman.     And  the  woman 
said,  "  Thus  and  so  is  the  truth." 

And    the   man   said,    "  If    I    believe   that,   what 
then?" 

And   the   woman    answered,    "  You   will   marry 
me." 

Then    the   man   asked   a   philosopher.     And   the 
philosopher  said.     "  I  don't  know.     And  this  side 
of  the  grave  you  never  will  know  the  truth  about 
anything  very  important." 
no 


Not  in  So  Many  fiords 


The  man  wouldn't  believe  the  philosopher,  but 
went  and  joined  the  church  of  the  priest,  the  party 
of  the  politician,  bought  goods  of  the  merchant, 
and  married  the  woman. 

So  in  the  end  he  was  no  different  from  the  most 
of  us,  caring  not  so  much  about  the  truth,  but 
struggling  for  money  to  support  the  church,  the 
party,  the  merchant,  and  the  woman. 


in 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


A  BIRTH 

IT  became  known  in  Heaven  and  in  Hell  that  a 
human  baby  was  about  to  be  born  on  earth.  So 
a  messenger  from  each  of  the  two  places  was  dis 
patched  to  instruct  the  young  stranger  who  would 
come  into  the  world  without  knowledge.  Care 
fully  the  messengers  were  chosen.  It  was  desired 
that  each  should  well  represent  his  home  and  his 
fellows.  For  there  was  no  telling  but  that  the 
baby  might  some  day  hold  a  high  place  among  men 
and  great  power. 

In  Hell  were  many  applicants  for  the  honor. 
Envy  and  Greed  and  Sloth,  Hatred,  Revenge,  and 
Anger,  Lust  and  Pride  and  Cruelty  —  each 
clamored  to  be  sent  on  the  mission.  But  after 
much  talk  and  confusion,  Cunning  stood  up  and 
said,  "  This  baby  may  be  born  to  more  powrer  than 
any  other  of  the  sons  of  men  in  a  century.  So  let 
us  be  sure.  Why  send  one  of  the  children  when 
the  mother  of  all  is  here?  " 

The  clamor  subsided.  The  counsel  of  Cunning 
prevailed. 

So  in  Heaven  likewise  were  many  anxious  to  go. 
Chastity,  Temperance,  Reverence,  Loyalty,  Truth, 
Patience,  Forgiveness  —  all  volunteered,  and  the 
claims  of  each  had  some  warrant  and  approval. 
But  at  last  Wisdom  spoke,  "  Why  send  one  of  the 
children  when  the  mother  of  all  is  here?  Should 
she  not  rather  go  if  she  will?  She  has  borne  us 

112 


A  Birth 

all,  nourished  us,  guided  us,  and  kept  us  alive. 
Surely  she  could  give  the  best  instruction." 

The  counsel  of  Wisdom  prevailed. 

Up  glided  the  messenger  from  Hell.  Down 
flew  the  messenger  from  Heaven.  They  met  at  the 
bedside  of  birth,  and  waited  through  the  agony. 
Each  sat  expectant. 

When  the  child  was  born,  they  walked  on  either 
side  of  the  nurse  who  carried  it  to  the  bath,  then 
down  to  its  father,  and  on  back  again  to  the  cradle. 
Here  night  and  day  they  abode,  so  that  whether 
sleeping  or  waking  the  child  might  receive  their 
whispered  instruction.  Each  knew  how  to  color 
both  thinking  and  dreaming.  So  no  second  of  the 
child's  life  was  free  from  the  influence  of  either. 
And  neither  with  all  of  her  striving  could  quite 
overcome  the  strength  of  the  other,  though  each 
summoned  her  children  to  help  her. 

The  child  waxed  and  grew  large.  Still  the  two 
teachers  clung  to  their  task  with  persistence.  And 
now  the  results  of  their  teaching  showed  more  and 
more  plainly.  Sometimes  the  guidance  of  one, 
sometimes  that  of  the  other,  dictated  the  child's 
action.  So  through  youth  to  manhood,  old  age, 
and  the  grave,  the  child  wavered  between  them. 

It  was  odd  —  wasn't  it?  —  that  he  should  not 
have  chosen  one  and  clung  to  her.  All  his  life 
long  both  were  beside  him.  All  of  his  life  he  had 
to  compare  them.  There  they  both  were,  but  it 
is  odder  that  he  never  quite  clearly  saw  either.  He 
knew  they  were  different,  as  different  as  Heaven 
and  Hell  where  they  came  from.  But  he  liked  to 
confuse  the  one  with  the  other,  or  he  couldn't  avoid 
it,  or  his  eyes  were  afflicted  with  dimness.  Per- 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

haps  the  two  figures  were  shrouded,  and  he  never 
quite  dared  to  tear  away  the  veils  that  concealed 
them.  Who  can  say? 

But  the  truth  is  that  to  his  dying  day,  he  wavered 
between  them  —  between  the  Love  of  Self  and  the 
Love  of  Others,  for  these  were  the  messengers  that 
were  sent  by  Hell  and  by  Heaven. 


114 


The  Towers 


THE  TOWERS 

"T  ISTEN,  O  ye  people,"  cried  a  mad  dervish, 
I  V  the  towers  of  Benares  will  fall.  Beware, 
ye  passers-by,  the  towers  of  Benares  will  fall." 

And  the  people  going  by  glanced  up  to  the  lofty 
towers,  and  shook  their  heads,  grinning,  to  think 
how  mad  the  dervish  was  and  how  foolish  his  say 
ing.  Had  not  the  towers  been  there  always  and 
withstood  both  earthquake  and  tempest? 

But  it  happened  that  there  was  a  beautiful  wife 
in  Benares,  who  was  also  a  mother.  And  she  was 
the  light  of  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  and  to  her 
children  she  was  the  queen  of  the  angels.  Joy  and 
peace  were  her  handmaidens,  and  went  where  she 
bade  them.  And  lo!  there  came  a  seducer  whose 
words  were  dripping  with  honey,  and  she  listened. 

And  there  was  a  banker  in  Benares  whose  vaults 
were  stuffed  full  of  the  savings  of  widows  and 
orphans  and  others  who  trusted  their  all  to  his 
keeping.  And  his  name  was  the  highest  for  honor 
and  probity  in  all  of  the  city.  When  any  one 
called  for  the  money  that  he  had  left  with  the 
banker,  immediately  the  sum  was  forthcoming,  and 
all  was  straight  as  it  should  be,  so  that  the  people 
were  glad  to  feel  their  savings  secure  from  both 
thief  and  robber.  But,  alas!  there  came  a  great 
schemer  whispering  of  profits  enormous,  and  the 
banker  listened. 

So  there  was  a  priest  in  Benares  who  was  vowed 
to  a  life  of  denial.  Temperate  he  was  in  all  things, 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

and  held  in  subjection  the  gross  appetites  of  the 
body.  All  of  his  thoughts  were  of  piety,  and  all 
of  his  deeds  of  benevolence.  And  the  people 
revered  him  and  boasted  that  he  was  almost  a  god, 
for  he  was  above  the  lust  and  drunkenness  and 
gluttony  that  commonly  ruled  over  their  fellows. 
But  to  him  came  a  siren  bringing  red  wine  and  rich 
food  and  sighing  with  passion,  and  he  listened. 

And  afterwards  came  the  mad  dervish  and 
walked  through  the  streets  of  Benares.  And  he 
cried,  "  Lo,  they  have  fallen.  The  towers  have 
fallen.  O  ye  people,  the  towers  of  Benares  lie  in 
the  dust.  Cover  your  faces  and  weep  for  the 
towers  of  Benares." 

But  the  people  glanced  at  the  towers  stretching 
their  shining  heights  to  the  heavens,  and  wagged 
their  heads  as  if  to  say,  "  What  a  very  mad  der 
vish  !  What  a  mad,  foolish  dervish !  " 


116 


Blind 


BLIND 

ONCE  in  a  far  country  there  was  a  human 
creature  very  near  to  the  angels,  because  his 
work  was  the  creation  of  beautiful  things.  All  of 
his  days  were  spent  in  dreaming  out  dreams  of 
beauty  and  in  giving  them  shape  and  substance. 
And  often  at  night  he  could  not  sleep  for  think 
ing  on  means  of  expression. 

It  was  a  law  of  his  being  that  he  must  dream 
and  work,  dream  and  work,  dream  and  work,  and 
he  could  not  evade  it.  And  the  thing  that  he 
had  to  seek  was  always  beauty.  But  alas,  some 
malevolent  power  had  so  made  it  that  he  must  ever 
yearn  for  applause  and  human  sympathy,  so  that 
his  joy  in  any  creation  was  but  small  if  no  other 
eye  than  his  could  see  its  beauty. 

And  it  happened  that  the  inhabitants  of  his 
country  were  for  the  most  part  blind,  or  at  least 
they  were  blind  to  beauty,  because  they  were  seek 
ing  always  something  else.  And  what  they  sought 
they  found,  but  its  glitter  blinded  them  and  bleared 
their  eyes.  And  it  must  have  dulled  their  minds, 
because  they  thought  they  were  rinding  the  best 
of  all  things.  And  it  must  have  hardened  their 
hearts,  because  they  had  but  little  sympathy  with 
dreamers  who  sought  out  things  of  beauty,  called 
them  ne'er-do-wells  and  idlers,  and  heaped  derision 
upon  them. 

So  this  poor  human  creature  was  very  unhappy. 
"  Look,  look,"  he  would  cry  to  the  crowd,  "  at  the 
thing  that  I  have  created." 
117 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

And  the  eyes  of  the  crowd,  if  they  were  lifted 
at  all  from  its  grubbing  into  all  kinds  of  filth 
where  lay  what  it  sought  —  those  eyes  were  raised 
for  one  fleeting  moment  only  to  wither  with  scorn 
or  mock  with  sarcasm  him  who  cried  out,  and  they 
returned  to  their  seeking. 

But  by  some  sort  of  miracle  this  very  unhappiness 
must  weave  for  itself  in  the  soul  of  the  dreamer 
a  garment  of  beauty,  and  walk  forth  to  seek  admira 
tion  from  the  same  sordid  folk,  and  always  in  vain. 
"  One  more  folly,"  would  they  say,  "  oh,  why 
doesn't  the  fool  make  something  useful  that  can 
be  eaten  or  worn  or  loaned  out  for  profit  ?  " 

And  they  never  could  understand.  That's  the 
pity  of  it,  they  never  could  understand,  so  never, 
never  could  they  be  brought  very  near  to  the  angels, 
but  sank  ever  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire  of 
their  grubbing. 


118 


Reputation 


REPUTATION 

THERE  was  once  a  man  who  undertook  a  great 
work.  It  was  begun  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  and  he  had  no  idea  of  its  real  magnitude.  But 
as  he  dreamed  and  planned  and  wrought,  it  grew 
under  his  hands.  Indeed  it  promised  much,  but  it 
would  require  the  toil  of  a  life-time  for  its  comple 
tion. 

At  times  the  heart  of  the  man  was  filled  with 
enthusiasm  and  the  joy  of  creation.  He  would  say 
to  himself,  "How  wonderful  is  it!  Oh,  it  will 
make  a  stir  in  the  world.  I  shall  be  famous. 
They  will  call  me  great  and  speak  of  me  with 
admiration." 

But  at  other  times  his  heart  would  sink  within 
him,  and  he  would  say,  "  It  is  nothing.  It  is  less 
than  nothing.  What  a  fool  am  I  to  hope,  to  dream 
that  I  shall  ever  accomplish  anything  great.  Oh, 
the  thing  is  poor,  weak,  puerile.  I  hate  it.  It 
disgusts  me." 

And  for  weeks  he  would  cease  toiling,  and  give 
himself  up  to  a  listless  despondency.  "  No,"  he 
would  say,  "  no,  it  is  not  great,  and  if  it  were,  the 
crowd  would  never  recognize  its  greatness.  What 
is  the  use?  Why  should  I  spend  my  life  in  toil? 
Why  can  I  not  give  myself  to  enjoyment  as  do 
others?  " 

And  he  would  waver  in  his  mind  —  to  go  on  or 
not  to  go  on?  For  days  he  would  wander  dis 
tractedly  about  in  feverish  indecision,  and  at  night 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

would  toss  on  his  couch  with  anxious  forebodings 
lest,  after  all,  his  work  were  foolish,  and  would  be 
despised,  if  ever  it  were  finished. 

A  hundred  times  he  concluded  to  abandon  it, 
and  a  hundred  times  something  called  him  back  to 
it.  One  day  it  would  be  beautiful  to  him,  another 
day  disgusting.  He  tried  other  tasks  more  in  keep 
ing  with  the  ordinary  life  about  him,  but  he  had 
no  success  at  them.  And  he  inevitably  drifted  back 
to  the  great  work  and  to  his  alternations  of  enthus 
iasm  and  despair. 

At  last  after  he  had  long  passed  middle  life,  the 
work  was  finished,  and  made  public. 

And  people  beholding  it,  said,  "  What  magnifi 
cence!  What  beauty!  What  infinite  accuracy  of 
detail !  Oh,  but  that  work  required  an  unwavering 
will.  What  indomitable  strength,  what  unfalter 
ing  persistence  must  have  been  in  its  creator!  " 


1 2O 


Gladness  and  Sorrow 


GLADNESS  AND  SORROW 

O:NCE  there  was  a  man  who  had  but  a  few 
months  to  live.  The  doctors  had  told  him  he 
would  die,  but  would  show  beforehand  no  outward 
signs  of  disease,  and  he  did  not  doubt  the  truth  of 
their  verdict.  He  looked  into  the  mirror,  saying 
to  himself,  "  Just  think,  the  face  that  I  am  looking 
at  will  soon  be  naught  but  dust  —  all  of  its  features 
naught  but  dust.  And  all  of  this  world  will  be 
dead  to  me.  But  I  must  be  brave." 

His  family  was  the  reason  why  he  thought  he 
should  be  brave.  He  would  not  shock  them  un 
timely  by  disclosing  to  them  his  awful  secret.  Let 
them  live  at  least  those  few  months  in  happiness. 
"  Every  moment  of  happiness  is  a  treasure,  and  why 
should  I,"  his  thoughts  ran,  "  destroy  those  treas 
ures  ?  My  family  is  dearer  to  me  than  life.  I  will 
preserve  the  secret  and  pretend  to  be  happy." 

But  the  wife  of  his  bosom  was  keen  of  sight,  for 
her  vision  was  sharpened  by  the  strength  of  affec 
tion.  And  she  could  look  into  the  heart  of  her 
husband.  So  she  knew  that  his  happiness  was  gone, 
and  that  he  only  pretended.  But  her  love  was 
such  that  she  reasoned,  "  It  were  better  for  me  not 
to  ask  him,  for  whatever  it  is,  he  withholds  it  for 
the  sake  of  my  happiness." 

And  that  was  a  marvellous  love  in  a  woman. 

And  she  was  kinder  to  him  than  ever  and 
tenderer.  So  he  saw  that  she  knew  he  was  troubled, 
and  it  touched  him.  "  My  God "  thought  he, 
121 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  how  it  will  grieve  her,  the  dear  heart.  Oh,  I 
must  seem  joyful  to  allay  her  suspicion." 

And  that  was  a  marvellous  love  in  a  man. 

The  months  went  by,  and  all  of  the  while  this 
game  of  hide  and  seek,  impelled  by  affection,  con 
tinued,  the  man  trying  to  hide  his  dismay,  the 
woman  seeking  how  best  to  dispel  it,  but  neither 
speaking  in  words  to  the  other  of  their  secret  dis 
quiet. 

At  length  the  time  was  ripe  according  to  the 
doctor's  prediction.  The  day  was  come,  and  yet 
the  man  lived.  And  other  days  came  and  slipped 
into  the  past  and  piled  themselves  into  weeks,  and 
the  man  grew  'stronger.  And  hope  awoke  in  his 
heart.  "  Oh,  it  may  be,"  he  thought,  "  that  the 
doctors  were  wrong.  What  if  I  am  not  doomed, 
after  all?  Oh,  God,  perhaps  I  may  live,  live, 
live!" 

Hardly  could  he  refrain  from  rushing  to  the  wife 
of  his  bosom  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  but  he 
checked  himself,  saying,  "  I  must  be  sure." 

And  this  was  harder,  far  harder  than  hiding  the 
sorrow  —  this  waiting  to  see,  this  withholding  of 
joy.  But  his  wife  sensed  the  hope  in  his  speech,  in 
his  gesture,  in  all  his  demeanour,  and  perceived 
there  was  in  him  some  secret  of  gladness.  And  she 
demanded  to  know  what  was  this  secret  of  gladness 
and  was  hurt  when  for  a  time  he  withheld  it,  yet 
she  had  borne  with  great  patience  his  hoarding  of 
his  secret  of  sorrow. 

For  even  love  must  stand  silent  before  the  portals 
of  sorrow. 


122 


Gladness  and  Sorrow 


MUTATION 

IN  a  city  not  far  from  the  sea  dwelt  a  husband 
who  thought  he  had  cause  to  suspect  that  the  wife 
of  his  bosom  was  untrue  to  the  vows  sworn  at  the 
altar.  And  his  peace  of  mind  was  destroyed.  He 
would  sit  by  the  side  of  the  sea  and  brood  on  his 
trouble,  neglecting  all  duties.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  in  all  the  world  there  was  no  joy  or  pleas 
ure  whatever.  The  little  laughing  waves  dancing 
in  the  sun  seemed  to  sob  and  sigh,  and  the  man  was 
quite  wretched,  and  moaned  to  himself,  "  Oh,  how 
could  she?  How  could  she?  Oh,  never,  never, 
could  I  have  betrayed  her.  The  faithless  wanton! 
No  temptation  would  ever  have  made  me  unfaith 
ful." 

As  he  sat  brooding,  there  came  by  a  woman, 
young,  comely,  and  charming.  Experienced  she 
was  in  the  ways  and  feelings  of  masculine  things. 
So  she  sat  down  beside  him,  or  not  very  far  from 
him.  And  she  sighed  so  loudly  one  would  have 
thought  her  heart  near  to  bursting,  "Alas!"  she 
said,  "alas!  alas!" 

The  husband  looked  up,  and  was  touched  with 
deep  pity  —  a  thing  so  fair,  so  young,  and  bowed 
in  such  sorrow.  A  spirit  burdened  like  his  with 
a  grief  past  all  speaking.  So  he  arose  and  accosted 
the  woman,  "  Pardon  me,  madame,  but  perhaps  I 
can  help  you." 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  "  my  grief  is  past  helping. 
I  have  lost  my  dear  lover.  He  was  faithless  and 
left  me." 

123 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"And  you  still  love  him?'  queried  the  husband. 

"  Oh,  better  than  life,"  answered  the  woman, 
"  far  better  than  life.  Oh,  I  want  him." 

And  the  husband  sat  down  beside  her,  very  close 
to  her.  And  he  told  her  all  of  his  troubles.  He 
was  eloquent  about  all  of  his  troubles,  and  she 
listened  and  sighed. 

So  the  next  day  they  met  again  and  the  next  and 
the  next  and  the  next.  And  at  last  the  husband 
said,  "You  are  the  light  of  my  life.  Let  us  leave 
here  together,  and  begin  over  anew  in  some  happier 
country.  Any  country  with  you  would  be  heaven." 

But  she  answered,  "Your  wife?  What  of  your 
wife  and  your  children?" 

He  said,  "  My  wife  is  a  wanton,  and  my  children 
—  who  knows?  Oh,  nothing  matters  but  you,  you, 
you.  I  want  you,  I  love  you." 

"  But  do  you  certainly  know  that  your  wife  has 
betrayed  you?  —  You  don't,  I  know  you  don't,  for 
you  have  told  me  all  your  suspicions,  and  they  are 
baseless.  I  have  looked  into  the  matter,  and  know 
all  about  it.  You  have  wronged  her." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  the  husband,  "  I  have  long 
ceased  to  love  her.  You,  you,  I  want  you." 

"  So,"  the  woman  replied,  "  you  would  leave  her, 
betray  her,  forsake  her.  All  men  are  faithless. 
Return  and  beg  her  forgiveness." 

She  left  him  standing  there  frozen,  and  went  on 
her  way  thinking,  "  I  don't  know  whether  his  wife 
is  guilty  or  not.  But  one  thing  is  plain,  he  is  a 
jealous,  amorous  old  fool,  I  could  never  endure 
him." 


124 


An  Instance 


AN  INSTANCE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  very  poor  man, 
who  was  a  member  of  a  very  rich  church. 
The  man  was  so  poor  that  often  he  and  his  wife 
were  forced  to  go  hungry.  And  his  case  came  to 
the  notice  of  the  pastor  and  the  deacons,  and  they 
said,  "What  shall  we  do  for  our  poor  brother?" 

It  happened  then  that  the  position  of  treasurer  of 
the  church  was  vacant.  So  on  the  motion  of  a  kind- 
hearted  deacon,  it  was  determined  that  the  poor 
man  should  be  made  treasurer,  but  his  salary  was 
to  be  small,  as  his  duties  were  not  very  heavy. 

He  was  duly  installed  in  the  office,  and  every 
Sunday  he  received  the  collections,  and  counted 
them,  and  deposited  them  in  a  bank  to  the  credit 
of  the  church,  and  no  man  save  him  knew  for  cer 
tain  how  much  was  given  to  the  church  on  each 
Sabbath.  But  not  long  after  his  election,  the  sums 
deposited  grew  less,  despite  the  fact  that  the  church 
increased  in  members  and  attendants. 

So  the  deacons  marvelled  and  said  among  them 
selves,  "  It  must  be  that  our  poor  brother  has  been 
stealing  from  the  treasury  of  the  Lord,  and  if  so, 
he  should  be  punished  severely." 

So  privately  they  set  watch  upon  him,  and  it  was 
discovered  that  he  did  indeed  take  for  his  own  uses 
the  contributions  of  the  pious,  but  he  did  not  know 
of  the  watch  or  the  discovery. 

The    deacons   appointed   a   committee   to   confer 
with  the  pastor  as  to  what  were  best  to  be  done,  and 
they  laid  all  of  the  proof  before  him. 
125 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  It  is  clear,"  said  the  pastor,  "  that  our  poor 
brother  is  guilty  of  theft.  But  is  his  salary  suffi 
cient  to  meet  the  modest  needs  of  himself  and  his 
wife?" 

The  deacons  agreed  that  it  wasn't. 

Then  said  the  pastor,  "  Out  of  my  pocket  will  I 
pay  the  sums  that  he  has  taken,  as  nearly  as  they 
can  be  estimated,  and  we  will  raise  his  salary,  and 
appoint  two  of  you  deacons  to  help  our  poor  brother 
count  the  collections.  We  have  led  him  into  temp 
tation." 

It  was  so  done. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  poor  brother,  out 
of  his  increased  salary,  paid  back  to  the  church  four 
times  the  amount  of  his  pilferings. 


126 


The  Treasure 


THE  TREASURE 

ONCE  a  poor  man  digging  in  a  field  found  a 
great  treasure,  and  fell  to  wondering  what  he 
would  do  with  it.  "  It  has  lain  here  many  years," 
said  he,  "  and  here  it  is  safe.  I  will  cover  it  up, 
and  leave  it  until  I  can  make  up  my  mind." 

So  he  returned  to  his  house  in  the  village,  and 
said  nothing  to  any  of  his  family.  But  his  wife 
noticed  that  he  was  restless,  and  that  all  during  the 
night  he  could  not  sleep,  and  she  wondered  what 
ailed  him.  But  with  all  of  her  questioning,  she 
could  get  nothing  out  of  him,  and  in  the  morning 
she  was  angry. 

With  early  dawn  the  poor  man  returned  to  the 
field.  He  would  see  that  the  treasure  was  safe. 
It  was  there  in  its  place  snugly  hidden.  And  the 
poor  man  fell  to  dreaming  what  a  great  figure  he 
and  his  would  cut  in  the  world.  His  heart  was 
filled  with  pride,  and  already  he  felt  the  first 
prickle  of  scorn  for  the  lowly.  "  Oh,  we  shall 
have  silks  and  satins  and  carriages  and  horses,"  he 
said,  "  and  gems  in  great  number.  And  our  former 
neighbors  will  gape  with  envy  and  wonder." 

He  couldn't  decide  what  to  do  with  the  treasure. 
His  house  was  frail  and  easy  to  enter.  He  was 
afraid  to  risk  it  there.  He  distrusted  banks  and 
bankers,  for  he  had  heard  that  banks  were  robbed 
and  that  bankers  themselves  were  sometimes  the 
robbers.  And  he  dared  not  trust  the  treasure  to 
the  keeping  of  any  of  his  neighbors.  So  he  sat 
127 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

all  day  in  the  field,  and  watched  the  place  of  its 
concealment. 

This  went  on  day  after  day,  and  he  could  do 
nothing  except  puzzle  his  mind  with  much  think 
ing.  This  plan  and  the  other  for  safeguarding  the 
treasure  was  thought  of  and  rejected.  Hardly 
could  he  tear  himself  away  when  dark  came.  His 
nights  were  full  of  disquiet.  And  he  was  off  to  the 
field  with  the  first  peep  of  day.  Still  he  could 
never  make  up  his  mind. 

His  neighbors,  passing,  saw  that  he  did  no  work, 
but  sat  long  in  one  place,  and  then  paced  restlessly 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth.  And  one  neighbor, 
more  curious  than  others,  noticed  that  the  poor  man 
halted  always  at  one  spot  and  gazed  at  the  ground, 
as  if  he  were  thinking,  trying  to  decide  about  some 
thing.  "What  can  it  be?"  said  the  neighbor. 
"  To-night  I  will  come,  take  a  look.  Perchance  I 
may  profit." 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  came  the  neighbor,  dug 
up  the  treasure,  and  carried  it  away  to  another  con 
cealment. 

Next  morning  the  poor  man  saw  but  a  gaping 
hole  where  the  treasure  had  been.  He  threw  him 
self  on  the  ground  bewailing  his  lot,  and  cursing  the 
thief  who  had  stolen  the  treasure,  and  sobbing  bit 
terly,  cried,  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  made  up  my  mind. 
I  wish  I  had  made  up  my  mind." 


128 


The  Deceitful  Dollar 


THE  DECEITFUL  DOLLAR 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  poor  little 
deceitful  dollar  that  found  itself  alone  in  the 
pocket  of  a  workingman.  It  felt  so  small  and  lone 
some  that  it  sighed  aloud.  The  workingman  was 
quite  astonished  to  hear  so  great  a  sigh  coming  out 
of  a  pocket  so  nearly  empty.  He  reached  in  and 
pulled  out  the  lonesome  dollar,  and  asked  it,  "  What 
is  the  matter  with  you?  One  would  think  that 
your  heart  is  bursting." 

"  Alas,  it  is,"  said  the  dollar. 

"  But  why?  "  asked  the  workingman. 

"  I  am  lonesome,"  answered  the  dollar,  "  so 
miserably,  damnably  lonesome.  I  have  been  hop 
ing  against  hope  that  I  should  get  some  companions, 
but  now  I  am  ready  to  cry.  Outside  of  a  few 
coppers  and  such  trifling  trash,  I  have  had  no  com 
pany  for  days  and  days." 

"  There,  there,"  said  the  workingman,  "  don't 
cry.  You  really  ought  to  be  proud.  You  are  the 
last  dollar  I  have,  and  I  am  keeping  you  for  a  luck 
piece.  I  am  never  going  to  spend  you  at  all,  what 
ever  happens.  I  may  get  work  again  next  week, 
and  then  you  will  have  company.  At  any  rate, 
cheer  up.  It  makes  a  man  downhearted  to  have 
such  a  melancholy  luck  piece." 

"  Well,"  said  the  dollar,  "  you  would  be  melan 
choly  too  if  you  were  put  into  a  dark  dungeon  and 
kept  there  by  yourself,  as  I  am.  I  should  like  to 
circulate  a  little,  to  go  about  some,  you  know. 
That's  what  I  was  made  for.  I  don't  want  to  be 
129 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

a  luck  piece,  and  there's  no  use  in  trying  to  make  a 
luck  piece  out  of  me,  because  you  never  have  any 
luck,  anyway,  and  you  never  will  have  any  till 
you  change  your  way  of  doing." 

"Why,  what's  that?"  said  the  workingman,  "I 
am  honest,  and  I  work  hard  when  I  can  get  a  job. 
If  a  man  like  that  doesn't  deserve  luck,  who  does? 
Tell  me  that." 

"  I  didn't  say  anything  about  deserving  luck," 
said  the  dollar,  "  I  was  merely  talking  about  having 
luck.  You  haven't  any  luck,  you  never  did  have 
any  luck,  and  you  never  will  have  any  luck,  because 
you  will  probably  always  be  an  honest  workingman, 
which  is  the  last  sort  of  man  that  luck  ever  hits." 

"  You  are  a  liar,"  said  the  workingman,  "  and 
you  know  it.  Just  for  that  I  am  going  to  spend 
you  for  a  square  meal.  I  am  tired  of  being  hungry, 
and  besides  I  wouldn't  have  such  a  lying  luck  piece 
as  you  are.  You  are  a  failure  as  a  luck  piece,  a 
miserable,  sobbing,  sighing,  dismal  failure." 

And  straightway  the  workingman  sought  out  a 
restaurant,  and  spent  the  dollar  for  a  square  meal. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  he,  as  he  handed  the  dollar 
to  the  cashier,  "  I  hope  you  are  satisfied.  You 
will  have  plenty  of  company  in  the  cash  register." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  dollar,  "  I  am  satisfied,"  and 
chuckled,  "ho!  ho!  I  am  satisfied,  because  I  have 
had  my  way  with  you.  You  were  a  fool  to  think 
you  could  keep  me.  No  man  could  ever  keep  a 
last  dollar,  because  a  dollar  will  sigh  and  weep  and 
lie  and  do  anything  rather  than  stay  alone.  It 
will  always  hurry  to  get  where  there  are  lots  of 
other  dollars  to  keep  it  company." 

The   workingman    stood    scratching   his   head    a 

130 


The  Deceitful  Dollar 


moment,  and  then  he  burst  out  with,  "  You  may  be 
a  liar,  but  you  spoke  the  truth  that  time,  my 
hearty." 

And  grinning  sheepishly,  he  went  out  to  look  for 
a  job. 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


SEX 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  saint  who  had  fled  the 
world  and  taken  refuge  in  the  solitude  of  a 
wilderness,  was  found  dead  in  his  hermitage  by 
two  pilgrims.  And  in  his  hand  was  clutched  a 
crumpled  parchment.  With  reverential  but  hur 
ried  eagerness  the  pilgrims  removed  the  parchment 
from  his  stiffened  fingers,  and  spread  it  out  to 
peruse  his  last  pious  exhortations.  Great  was  their 
amazement  to  read  what  follows: 

"  O  Passion,  God  knows  whether  you  are  good 
or  evil  —  man  doesn't.  Philosophers  scorn  you,  or 
pretend  to,  and  you  make  hypocrites  of  their  dis 
ciples,  yea,  of  the  philosophers  themselves.  Or  it 
may  be  that  their  scorn  is  a  fortress  to  defend  them. 
If  so,  you  smash  it,  you  blow  it  up,  and  leave  them 
to  writhe  in  its  ruins. 

"  O  Passion,  parsons  endeavor  to  tame  you. 
They  tie  you  up  in  a  harness.  They  bind  and  re 
strict  you.  Oh,  they  tie  you  as  tight  as  they  can. 
For  the  duration  of  a  whole  human  life  they  seek 
to  imprison  you.  And  after  they  have  bound  you 
their  strongest,  still  do  they  fear  you.  Looking  at 
you  askance,  they  wonder  if  their  bonds  will  be  able 
to  hold  you.  Oh,  you  laugh  at  them,  and  compel 
them  to  bless  you. 

"  O  Passion,  poets  and  painters  worship  you,  as 

do  all  artists.     You  awake  them  to  beauty.     You 

thrill   them  with   creative  energy.     You   fill   them 

with  harmonies  of  form  and  of  sound  and  of  color. 

132 


Sex 


Till  you  come,  they  are  blind  and  lie  dormant, 
inert,  and  listless.  But  with  your  coming  is  light 
and  life  and  melody.  Oh,  you  thrill  them.  They 
fall  down  and  worship  you.  You  are  their  ecstasy. 

"  O  Passion,  to  every  son  of  Adam  you  give 
moments  of  rapture,  to  sage  and  simpleton,  to 
banker  and  beggar,  to  priest  and  profligate.  Let 
them  deny  you.  They  pay  for  their  folly.  You 
strain  them  to  breaking  if  they  defy  you.  Oh,  they 
may  twist  and  struggle  and  pray,  but  escape  you?  — 
No,  no,  they  do  not  escape  you.  Ha!  they  are  so 
fashioned  that  they  must  welcome  you  while  fighting 
against  you.  They  pet  you,  gloat  on  you,  embrace 
you,  during  the  battle.  And  in  their  secret  hearts 
they  cherish  you. 

"  O  Passion,  you  make  wise  men  fools,  and 
enlighten  the  simple.  You  pull  down  kings,  and 
exalt  the  lowly.  You  can  transform  arctic  regions 
into  Elysian  bowers,  and  temper  the  heat  of  the 
desert  to  the  coolness  of  green  dells  on  a  mountain. 
You  paint  the  sunset  and  ensilver  the  moon.  You 
can  glorify  poverty  and  illumine  despair. 

"  O  Passion,  some  say  that  you  are  good,  and 
some  that  you  are  evil.  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
you  are  immortal,  or,  at  least,  that  you  will  live 
until  the  last  human  son  gasps  out  his  breath  on  the 
shoreless  edge  of  time.  And  then  —  " 

"Ha!  the  old  hypocrite!"  thought  one  of  the 
pilgrims. 

But  the  thought  of  the  other  was,  "Oh,  the  dear, 
good  saint,  I  never  suspected  his  struggles." 


133 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


LIMITATION 

A  MONK  in  his  cloister  prayed,  "  O  God,  I 
would  be  good.  I  yearn  to  be  good,  just  good. 
I  pray  thee,  O  God,  help  me  to  be  good.  Guard 
me  from  evil.  Preserve  me  from  temptation. 
Make  me  good." 

He  rose  from  his  knees,  and  went  out  into  the 
streets  of  the  city. 

A  harlot  in  her  brothel  prayed,  "  O  God,  I  would 
be  good.  I  yearn  to  be  good,  just  good.  I  pray 
thee,  O  God,  help  me  to  be  good.  Rescue  me  from 
this  life  of  evil.  O  God,  make  me  good." 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  and  went  out  into  the 
streets  of  the  city. 

The  monk  and  the  harlot  met.  He  drew  close 
his  cassock,  so  that  she  should  not  touch  it  in  pass 
ing,  lest  she  should  defile  him.  And  he  thought, 
'  The  devil  hath  sent  her,  this  evil  woman.  Oh, 
well  for  me  that  I  have  fortified  my  spirit  with 
prayer.  She  would  lead  me  astray,  but  I  feel  the 
protecting  arms  of  God  thrown  about  me." 

And  the  harlot,  she  thought,  "  Oh,  here  is  a  holy 
man  of  God.  How  closely  he  drew  his  robe  about 
him,  lest  it  should  touch  me.  Oh,  I  am  indeed  not 
worthy  to  touch  the  hem  of  his  garment.  Oh,  he 
is  good.  He  is  indeed  good,  the  blessed  man  of 
God." 

And  they  went  on  their  separate  ways. 

The  harlot  never  knew  or  dreamed  or  imagined 
how  the  monk  in  the  long  hours  of  darkness  writhed 
in  passion,  how  many,  many  times  he  was  at  the 
134 


Limitation 

point  of  seeking  out  her  or  some  of  her  sisters,  how 
it  required  all  of  his  strength,  his  piety,  and  the  fear 
of  detection  to  restrain  him. 

The  monk  never  knew  or  dreamed  or  imagined 
how  the  harlot  yearned  to  be  good,  how  she  prayed 
for  forgiveness,  how  she  revered  his  piety,  and  how 
unworthy  she  felt  in  his  presence. 

But  one  may  hear  an  evil  whisper,  "  If  instead 
of  going  on  their  separate  ways,  they  had  gone 
together  and  had  come  to  some  secret  place !  What 
then?" 

Perhaps  it  might  have  been  as  the  whisperer 
imagines.  Such  at  least  is  the  wisdom  of  cassock 
and  cloister,  but  possibly  their  prayers  might  have 
been  answered.  And  as  it  is,  the  harlot  still  is  a 
harlot,  and  the  monk  still  is  afraid  of  defilement. 

How  God  must  pity  his  poor  creatures! 


135 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 


MALE  AND  FEMALE 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  beautiful  woman 
for  whom  men  did  whatever  she  wanted. 
And  she  was  proud  of  her  power,  and  boasted  that 
no  man  could  withstand  her.  And  yet  to  none 
save  her  husband  had  she  ever  yielded  her  body. 

And  it  happened  that  there  was  a  certain  judge 
in  the  land  who  had  decided  a  cause  adversely  to 
the  wish  of  the  woman.  So  she  went  to  see  him 
in  private  to  induce  him  to  recall  the  decision.  He 
heard  her  plea  w7ith  attention,  and  noted  her  looks 
and  demeanour,  her  gesture  and  glances  and 
blushes  and  the  soft  modulations  of  her  voice  accus 
tomed  to  wheedle.  And  the  touch  of  her  hand 
on  his  arm  so  natural  as  to  seem  unintended,  went 
not  unheeded.  Still  was  the  judge  not  moved,  but 
firmly  upheld  his  decision,  saying  it  was  just  and 
must  stand  without  changing. 

The  woman,  surprised,  entreated  him  at  length, 
besought  him  with  tears,  but  he  still  was  unmoved. 
And  then  she  said,  "  Tell  me,  why  is  it?  You  are 
the  first  man  with  whom  I  have  failed.  And  most 
of  the  others  I  have  not  begged,  have  not  stooped 
to  beg.  I  have  had  but  to  ask." 

"  Ah,  madam,  if  I  tell  you  the  truth,  I  fear  you 
will  hate  me,"  said  the  judge. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  woman,  "  believe  me,  I  will 
not." 

"  Well,"  said  the  judge,  "  perhaps  it  doesn't  mat 
ter,  for  you  probably  hate  me  already,  so  I  will 
136 


Male  and  Female 


tell  you.  When  you  have  bought  goods  from  a 
shopman  or  food  in  the  market-place,  the  men  that 
you  bought  from,  sold  to  you  at  a  lesser  price  or 
gave  you  the  choice  of  their  wares?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  true,"  said  the  woman. 

"  So  waiters  in  hotels  and  clerks  and  officials  of 
one  kind  and  another  have  given  you  preference 
or  waived  regulations  at  your  simple  request.  And 
have  smiled  and  bowed  and  been  acquiescent." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,  but  how  did  you  know  it?" 

"  I  know  it  because  I  perceive  that  you  belong 
to  a  certain  class  of  women  for  whom  men  always 
do  things  of  that  sort." 

"  And  what  class  of  women  is  that?  " 

"  The  women  who  seem  ever  to  promise  —  to 
promise  what  only  women  can  give.  To  them  any 
thing  masculine  is  a  challenge.  I  don't  know 
whether  or  not  they  can  help  it.  I  am  not  blaming 
them  or  you,  but  it  is  the  thrill  of  sex  that  they  im 
part  to  every  male  whom  they  touch,  and  it  seems 
as  if  they  are  compelled  to  impart  it.  And  it 
arouses  a  feeling  in  the  man  that  if  circumstances 
were  different,  perhaps  just  slightly  different  —  oh, 
it  is  as  if  the  mind  of  the  man  and  the  mind  of  the 
woman  met  and  embraced  —  and  it  seems  the  fault 
of  circumstances,  not  of  the  woman,  that  the 
embrace  is  mental  only.  And  it  is  so  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men." 

"Mentally  then  we  are  unchaste?"  cried  the 
woman  in  anger.  "  We  trade  on  our  sex  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men!  And  they  are  com 
plaisant  to  us?  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  judge,  "  that  is  putting  it  quite 
harshly.     I  see  I  should  never  have  begun  —  " 
137 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

"  Tell  me  then,"  interrupted  the  woman,  "  why 
is  it  that  you  are  impervious?  Are  you  not  mascu 
line?  Are  you  not  a  male?" 

"  Alas,"  said  the  judge,  "  I  am  not.  I  am  but 
a  masquerader.  When  I  was  a  very  young  man, 
I  was  wounded  in  battle,  and  I  —  I  —  it  —  it  —  " 

"  You,  you  wretched  impostor,  and  I  had  hoped 
to  get  justice  from  you !  "  sneered  the  woman  in 
scorn  as  she  marched  from  the  room. 

And  oddly  enough  it  was  the  judge  who  blushed 
and  felt  guilty. 


138 


Consolation 


CONSOLATION 

ONCE  there  was  a  man  who  was  filled  with  a 
passion  for  beauty.  And  he  yearned  to  make 
something  that  would  inspire  the  hearts  of  all  peo 
ple  with  joy  to  behold  it.  For  he  thought  that 
nothing  else  could  justify  a  human  life  except  its 
creation  of  beauty.  That  alone  made  life  worthy 
of  honor. 

So  he  endeavored  to  paint  pictures  that  should 
surpass  the  triumphs  of  the  old  masters,  but,  alas, 
the  power  was  not  given  him,  and  he  failed.  His 
pictures  were  poor  and  common  in  spite  of  the 
labor  that  he  lavished  upon  them. 

And  he  had  the  rare  gift  of  seeing  the  defects  and 
shortcomings  in  the  things  that  he  created.  So  in 
poetry  and  in  sculpture,  despite  years  of  training 
and  effort,  his  toil  was  in  vain.  At  last  he  knew 
that  neither  poem  nor  statue  nor  painting  created 
by  him  would  give  joy  to  his  fellows.  And  he  was 
bowed  down  with  sorrow  because  the  gift  was 
denied  him. 

And  wailing,  he  lamented,  "  O  God,  why  is  it 
that  I  have  failed?  Why  is  it  that  I  can  do  noth 
ing  worthy?  Oh,  I  am  full  of  the  worship  of 
beauty.  Oh,  I  thrill  with  the  feeling  of  beauty. 
And  I  can  not  express  it  —  neither  in  word  nor  in 
form  nor  in  color.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

And  there  came  from  somewhere  an  answer, 
"  There  is  yet  a  nobler  expression  than  in  word  or 
form  or  color.  The  highest  mode  of  expression 
139 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

is  not  in  these,  but  in  deeds.  Content  thyself,  be 
cause  to  thee  is  given  the  power.  Thou  canst  live 
beauty." 

And  there  broke  on  him  then  a  great  light,  and 
he  did  a  thing  that  was  better  than  painting  a 
picture  or  writing  a  poem  or  carving  a  statue,  be 
cause  each  of  these  is  at  best  a  hint,  a  memorial,  or 
a  prophecy  of  some  such  thing  as  he  did. 

For  all  men  said  of  him,  "  God  bless  him,  he 
lived  a  beautiful  life." 


140 


Quite  So 


QUITE  SO 

I  AM  said  to  be  lovely  and  altogether  admirable, 
yet  everywhere  I  go  I  make  people  uncomfort 
able.  Between  friends  I  am  unbearable.  Some 
times  I  thrust  my  way  into  churches,  or  am  lugged 
in,  and  then  there  is  hard  feeling.  Usually  the 
trouble  arises  between  parson  and  deacons.  And 
the  elders  say  the  preacher  had  no  business  to  bring 
me  in,  but  ought  to  have  confined  himself  to  preach 
ing  the  gospel. 

Now  and  again  some  foolish  professor  in  college 
or  university  takes  up  with  me,  and  can  not  forget 
me  while  he  lectures.  So  his  mind  wanders  from 
the  ancient  and  hoary  traditions  that  he  should 
inculcate  on  his  pupils.  His  companionship  with 
me  or  championship  of  me  gets  noised  abroad. 
Then  he  is  rebuked  and  dismissed  for  his  folly.  It 
seems  to  me  they  all  ought  certainly  to  know  better, 
but  some  of  them  will  never  learn  anything  prac 
tical. 

And  even  as  wise  and  astute  as  are  most  politi 
cians,  not  always  do  they  remember  to  avoid  me. 
Every  now  and  then  one  is  fascinated  by  me  for 
a  moment,  so  that  he  does  not  see  clearly,  and  speaks 
before  he  has  much  time  for  thinking.  So  his 
dalliance  with  me  is  discovered.  His  prospects  are 
ruined,  though  he  gives  out  many  denials.  He  is 
no  longer  a  safe  and  a  sane  politician. 

I  am  suppressed  by  a  great  many  people  —  and 
most  newspapers.  They  find  my  suppression  quite 
profitable,  and  therefore  by  no  means  unpleasant. 
141 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

To  financiers  and  diplomatists  I  am  fatal.  No  man 
wants  me  brought  home  to  him,  so  I  am  homeless. 
But  they  clothe  me,  for  I  am  too  ugly  when  naked. 
And  they  feed  me  with  dope  and  narcotics,  yet  I  am 
sleepless. 

More  often  than  not  I  am  disguised  and  dressed 
up  in  colors  that  make  me  look  different.  In  the 
hands  of  my  foes  I  am  twisted  and  broken,  and  the 
majority  of  my  friends  are  afraid  to  defend  me. 

Yet  I  live  on.  I  am  immortal.  I  have  inspired 
some  seers  and  some  prophets.  But  the  most  of 
them  have  never  known  me.  I  am  —  THE 
TRUTH. 


142 


The  Egg  of  Dreams 


THE  EGG  OF  DREAMS 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who 
bought  an  egg,  intending  to  eat  it.  But  as  he 
walked  along  with  the  egg  in  his  hand,  he  fell  to 
thinking.  And  his  thoughts  ran  after  this  fashion 
—  "I  will  not  eat  this  egg,  for  it  is  the  seed  of  a 
flock  of  a  thousand  chickens.  I  will  rather  save 
it,  and  when  one  of  my  neighbors  sets  a  hen,  I  will 
get  leave  to  put  this  egg  under  her.  And  I  will 
mark  it,  so  that  we  may  know  what  chick  is 
hatched  from  it,  for  we  will  watch  carefully  at  the 
time  of  the  hatching. 

"  Then  I  will  take  that  chick  and  rear  it.  I  can 
easily  spare  the  time  needed  to  tend  one  chicken, 
and  the  cost  will  be  next  to  nothing.  When  the 
chicken  is  grown  into  a  hen,  I  will  take  the  eggs 
that  she  will  lay  and  put  them  all  aside  to  be 
hatched.  And  when  they  are  hatched,  I  will  save 
from  that  brood  all  of  the  pullets.  And  the  eggs 
that  they  lay,  I  will  preserve  in  like  manner  to  be 
hatched  by  them." 

"  And  in  order  to  keep  my  flock  going,  I  will 
sell  from  each  brood  all  of  the  cockerels  except 
enough  for  breeding,  and  with  the  money  received 
will  I  buy  feed  for  the  rest  of  the  chickens.  From 
now  on  I  will  make  it  the  rule  of  my  life  under 
no  circumstances  to  eat  or  sell  a  single  egg  de 
scended  from  this  one,  and  never  will  I  eat  or  sell 
a  single  hen  or  a  pullet. 

"  The  consequence  of  this  line  of  action  must 
inevitably  be  that  I  shall  accumulate  an  immense 
143 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

flock  of  fowls.  In  a  few  years  they  will  run  into 
thousands.  Half  of  them  will  be  cockerels.  From 
the  sale  of  these  I  shall  derive  a  handsome  income, 
so  that  I  shall  be  independent.  And  the  hens  will 
go  on  laying  and  the  flock  increasing  till  the  day 
of  my  death.  If  I  live  very  long,  I  shall  be  rich. 

"  Just  think,  I  was  about  to  eat  this  egg.  In 
one  moment  I  should  have  consumed  thousands  of 
chickens.  So  people  go  carelessly  along  destroying 
whole  fortunes  for  a  gratification  so  small  as  not 
to  be  worth  considering.  I  am  glad  that  I  am 
more  thoughtful.  I  have  in  my  hand  now  a  com 
petence,  and  I  shall  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  squander 
it.  No,  I  am  on  the  high  road  to  prosperity,  and 
I  will  follow  it  to  its  certain  end." 

So  thinking,  he  was  jubilant.  From  one  of  his 
neighbors  he  readily  got  leave  to  put  his  egg  under 
a  hen  that  was  sitting.  And  he  marked  the  egg 
carefully.  When  the  time  for  hatching  drew  nigh, 
he  and  the  neighbor  kept  watch,  looking  at  the  egg 
from  time  to  time,  to  be  sure  that  they  might  know 
what  was  hatched  from  it. 

But  the  time  came  and  went.  The  hen  sat 
faithfully  on  the  egg  along  with  the  others.  The 
man  and  his  neighbor  watched  with  care.  But  at 
last  the  truth  became  clear.  Hope  could  no  longer 
disguise  it.  The  egg  was  infertile. 


144 


Introspection 


INTROSPECTION 

ONCE  there  was  a  man  whose  eyes  were  turned 
inward.  He  looked  always  at  his  own  heart, 
and  examined  himself  with  narrow  attention.  Not 
for  him  were  the  beauties  of  nature.  Not  for  him 
the  virtues  or  vices  of  others,  the  joys  or  sorrows, 
the  play  of  emotion,  none  of  the  harvest  that  is 
reaped  by  an  eye  that  looks  outward  into  a  world 
full  of  varied  and  beautiful  things.  No,  he  must 
look  ever  inward. 

And  as  he  looked,  lo!  he  discovered  in  his  own 
heart  a  canker.  At  first  it  was  small,  hardly  could 
he  see  it.  But  his  eye  was  fastened  upon  it.  And 
as  he  gazed,  it  grew  ever  larger.  And  more  than 
ever  was  he  unable  to  tear  his  eye  from  it.  And  it 
seemed  it  would  spread  all  over  his  heart.  So  the 
man  pitied  himself,  and  sighed,  and  was  sad. 

"Oh,  this  horrible  canker,"  he  wailed,  "  this  hor 
rible  canker!  It  will  kill  me.  I  know  it.  It  will 
kill  me." 

And  as  he  sat  wailing,  there  passed  by  a  friend 
and  asked  of  the  man  whose  eyes  were  turned  in 
ward,  "  What  ails  you?  Why  do  you  weep?  " 

And  the  man  told  the  friend  about  the  horrible 
canker,  saying,  "  It  will  kill  me.  It  will  kill  me." 

But  the  friend  said,  "  Do  you  know  the  notary's 
daughter?  " 

'  No,  I  don't  know  her,"  answered  the  man. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  friend. 

The  man  pulled  back  and  protested,  but  the 
H5 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

friend  would  take  no  denial.  He  seized  the  man's 
arm,  and  pushed  him  and  pulled  him  till  they  came 
into  the  house  of  the  notary,  where  sat  the  notary's 
daughter.  And  the  friend  made  known  the  one  to 
the  other. 

"  This  man  looks  ever  inward  and  has  a  canker  in 
his  heart,"  said  the  friend,  "  can  you  cure  him?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  notary's  daughter,  "  I  fear  not. 
If  the  poor  man  looks  ever  inward,  I  fear  he  is 
doomed." 

But  she  smiled,  and  was  beautiful,  oh,  so  beau 
tiful,  and  her  voice  was  like  music. 

The  ears  of  the  man  who  looked  ever  inward 
were  charmed,  and  his  eyes  were  snatched  from 
their  looking  inward  for  a  glance  at  the  notary's 
daughter.  And  never  again  could  he  turn  his  eyes 
inward,  for  they  would  always  be  seeking  the 
notary's  daughter.  So  he  forgot  all  about  the  hor 
rible  canker,  and  it  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  till  it 
vanished.  The  rule  of  its  being  was  that  it  must  be 
watched,  and  the  man  no  longer  could  watch  it. 

It  may  be  some  other  outward  thing  would  have 
served  as  well,  but  the  fact  is,  the  man  who  looked 
ever  inward  fell  in  love  with  the  notary's  daughter. 


146 


Body 


BODY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  woman  who 
lived  in  a  hotel,  and  did  nothing  useful  from 
morning  to  night.  She  was  married,  but  she  was 
the  mother  of  no  children.  Most  of  her  waking 
time  was  spent  in  submitting  her  body  to  the  minis 
tration  of  other  people. 

When  she  arose  in  the  morning,  her  body  was 
bathed  and  clothed  by  a  maid.  Then  it  was  fed 
with  breakfast  cooked  by  other  hands  and  brought 
to  her  by  a  waiter  and  after  a  while  it  was  rubbed 
and  kneaded  by  a  masseuse,  and  again  clothed  by  a 
maid.  And  then  came  to  it  the  service  of  a  hair 
dresser,  and  thereafter  a  manicurist,  and  next  a 
chiropodist,  and  then  a  physician  felt  of  it,  listened 
to  it,  and  inspected  it.  And  the  hour  of  lunch  was 
at  hand,  so  the  body  was  again  clothed  by  the  maid, 
and  again  fed  by  a  waiter. 

After  lunch  it  was  disrobed  by  the  maid,  then 
clothed  by  her  more  lightly,  and  comfortably 
arranged  by  her  on  a  bed  to  be  revived  by  a  nap 
from  the  fatigue  of  its  morning  exertions.  The 
nap  over,  the  body  was  again  clothed  by  the  maid, 
and  was  fed  tea  and  cakes  by  a  waiter.  It  was 
then  transported  by  an  elevator  boy  to  the  ground 
floor,  and  taken  by  a  chauffeur  for  an  afternoon 
ride  in  an  automobile.  And  having  been  brought 
back  by  him,  it  was  again  disrobed  and  re-clothed 
by  the  maid  for  dinner,  when  it  was  again  fed  by 
a  waiter,  transported  by  an  elevator  boy  back  to 
147  ' 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

the  upper  floor,  retouched  by  the  maid,  again  trans 
ported  by  the  elevator  boy  and  the  chauffeur,  and 
deposited  at  the  opera. 

At  the  opera  it  was  in  large  measure  bared  by  its 
husband  to  a  hoped-for  admiration  from  onlookers. 
It  sat  through  the  opera,  and  was  thereafter  trans 
ported  to  a  restaurant,  and  again  fed  by  a  waiter, 
and  transported  back  to  the  hotel  by  a  chauffeur. 
It  was  then  disrobed,  nightrobed,  and  tucked  in  bed 
by  the  maid.  And  the  husband  came  to  it,  which 
was  its  justification  and  reason  for  being  and  means 
of  support. 

And  the  body  grew  ever  fatter  and  engulfed  the 
mind  and  smothered  the  will  of  her  whom  it 
possessed  and  dominated,  so  that  the  only  emana 
tions  from  the  mind  were  fatuous  follies  and  from 
the  will  feeble  complaints.  And  the  husband  won 
dered  why  his  wife  was  not  happy,  and  other  women 
envied  her  because  she  had  to  do  nothing,  while  she 
scorned  all  of  those  other  women  who  had  to  work 
and  who  envied  her.  And  she  deemed  herself 
superior  to  them,  and  in  fact  was  quite  generally 
regarded  as  superior  to  them  —  so  what  would  you 
have? 


148 


The  Artist 


THE  ARTIST 

IN  a  great  city  there  lived  once  an  artist.  He 
was  a  painter  of  beautiful  pictures.  His  inspira 
tion  was  true,  and  his  technique  faultless,  still  he 
was  not  popular.  The  people  of  his  time,  when 
they  noticed  his  paintings  at  all,  jeered  at  them,  or, 
at  best,  were  indifferent,  for  they  were  a  light- 
minded  generation. 

For  years  the  artist  toiled  away,  and  produced  a 
multitude  of  pictures,  both  landscapes  and  portraits. 
And  all  of  them  swam  in  an  atmosphere  of  spiritual 
loveliness,  and  revealed  the  truth.  As  he  himself 
looked  at  his  pictures  he  was  filled  with  a  fervor 
of  feeling,  they  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful,  but 
alas!  few  or  none  shared  that  feeling.  So  he  was 
downcast  and  despondent. 

His  friends  came  and  remonstrated  with  him, 
saying,  "  Why  don't  you  paint  after  the  style  of 
So-and-so  or  the  fashion  of  This-and-that  ?  They 
are  greatly  admired  and  are  overwhelmed  with 
praise  and  with  money?" 

So  the  artist  would  visit  the  galleries  where  were 
hung  the  paintings  of  these  rivals,  and  he  would 
pore  over  them  seeking  for  beauty.  "  But  they 
seem  to  me  cheap  and  artificial,  and  faulty  both  in 
form  and  in  color,"  he  would  say  to  himself. 
"  They  have  no  atmosphere,  they  breathe  no  truth, 
they  are  false.  But  it  may  be  that  I  am  mistaken. 
Everybody  says  they  are  beautiful.  Oh,  well,  I  will 
try  an  imitation,  and  perhaps  I  shall  win  the  ad 
miration  of  the  crowd." 

149 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

So  he  went  to  his  studio,  took  up  his  palette,  his 
mahl-stick,  and  brushes,  squeezed  out  his  colors, 
and  set  himself  to  produce  something  after  the 
fashion  of  This-and-that  or  the  style  of  So-and-so. 
But  he  could  not.  The  more  he  tried  the  more  he 
could  not.  Constantly  something  reproached  him, 
saying,  "  You  are  betraying  the  gift  that  God  gave 
you." 

But  something  else  said,  "  No,  it  is  better  to  fol 
low  these  rivals;  they  have  the  stamp  of  popular 
approval.  You  have  been  too  insistent  on  your  own 
notions.  It  may  be  that  you  have  no  gift  of  crea 
tion,  and  are  but  a  fool  to  have  thought  so.  How 
little  likely  is  it  that  you  alone  are  right  and  all 
others  wrong." 

The  artist  wrung  his  hands  in  despair  and  could 
do  nothing.  So  he  painted  no  more.  He  sat  list 
less  all  day,  because  the  crowd  would  not  praise 
him;  he  could  not  catch  their  fancy. 

Overcome  with  chagrin,  he  died  disappointed. 
The  next  generation  called  him  a  master,  and 
uttered  his  name  with  great  reverence,  while  the 
fame  of  his  rivals  had  vanished,  for  indeed  their 
work  was  but  trivial. 


150 


The  Queer  Country 


THE  QUEER  COUNTRY 

I  MET  once  a  great  traveller  and  asked  him  this 
question,  "  O  traveller,  of  all  of  the  places  that 
you  have  found  or  frequented  what  place  was  the 
oddest?" 

And  he  answered,  "  That  place  I  have  not  found, 
but  I  seek  it.  I  dreamed  of  a  place,  and  I  go  about 
seeking  it,  and  it  is  a  queer  place,  wherever  it  is, 
because  in  it  each  vice  and  each  virtue  has  its  own 
proper  odor.  And  the  people  are  such  that  they 
perceive  every  odor  and  properly  judge  it. 

"  And  in  that  place  was  a  woman  telling  her  sins 
to  a  priest  in  the  confessional.  But  the  odor  she 
gave  out  was  not  that  of  contrition  —  it  was  quite 
other,  so  the  priest  peeped  through  the  lattice  to  see 
if  she  were  fair  in  appearance,  and  then  prescribed 
as  her  penance  that  she  should  visit  him  the  next 
evening.  And  she  knew  what  he  wanted,  for  the 
odor  emitted  by  him  was  not  the  odor  of  holiness  — 
he  was  a  foul  priest,  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 

"  And  so  there  met  on  the  street  two  former 
friends  who  had  had  a  difference,  and  a  coolness 
had  arisen  between  them.  And  each  thought  the 
other  was  harboring  hate  still,  as  they  had  done. 
But  lo !  as  they  passed,  the  odor  of  love  was  wafted 
from  each  to  the  other,  and  they  stopped,  and  em 
braced,  and  were  happy. 

"  And  a  man  was  found  at  the  scene  of  a  hideous 
crime,  and  an  awful  suspicion  would  have  fastened 
upon  him,  but  he  protested  his  innocence,  and  the 
151 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

odor  of  truth  exhaled  from  his  body,  so  he  was  not 
even  suspected. 

"  And  when  suitors  came  to  their  wooing,  it  was 
easy  for  women  to  know  whether  love  or  greed  or 
ambition  were  in  the  heart  of  each  suitor.  And  in 
that  country  marriages  were  happy  and  lasting. 
And  lies  were  infrequent,  because  they  were  use 
less,  for  the  odor  of  lying  was  like  the  stench  of 
some  putrid  carcass. 

"Wasn't  that  an  odd  country? — I  never  have 
found  it.  But  sometimes  as  I  approach  a  large  city 
and  pass  through  the  slums  that  surround  it,  I  think 
for  a  moment  I  must  have  discovered  the  country  I 
seek,  so  strong  is  the  odor  of  lying.  But  always 
I  have  found  other  sources  from  which  this  odor 
proceeded.  And  again  I  have  happened  on  a  cot 
tage  embowered  in  flowers,  and  have  been  almost 
persuaded  that  it  was  the  perfume  of  love  that 
dilated  my  nostrils." 


152 


Yes 


YES 

"OINCE  the  world  began  and  now,  there  are 

Oand  have  been  many  candidates  for  greatness. 
Various  have  been  the  claims,  and  no  less  various  the 
awards.  Men  have  vied  with  each  other  in  every 
form  of  contest  that  they  might  be  accounted  great," 
soliloquized  the  bent  and  gray  philosopher  in  his 
bare  attic,  "  and  I,  I  too  have  had  the  dream. 

"  Perhaps  not  all  those  with  the  fame  of  greatness 
have  deserved  it.  Perhaps  many  without  that  fame 
were  truly  great,  who  shall  say?  Somehow  I,  in 
my  own  person,  have  missed  it.  Age  and  poverty 
and  meditation  have  lifted  me  above  the  clouds  of 
vanity  that  once  obscured  my  vision. 

"  What  was  it  wherein  I  failed  ?  —  I  had  the 
intelligence.  In  all  the  schools  none  was  brighter 
than  I.  That  intelligence  was  trained  and  enriched 
by  laborious  study.  No  one  of  my  peers  was  master 
of  wider  dominions  of  knowledge. 

"  And  will  ?  —  I  had  the  will.  I  conquered  and 
held  in  subjection  the  wild  impulses  of  the  body. 
I  bowed  in  slavish  subservience  to  no  man  whether 
prince  or  philosopher.  Yea,  I  could  not  be  bound 
even  with  the  ropes  of  sex.  No  fleering  woman 
ever  exulted  over  me.  Are  there  many  who  can 
say  so  much? 

"And  courage?  —  My  spirit  has  never  quailed 
before  danger.  I  have  dared  to  hazard  my  life  for 
my  opinion.  I  have  flung  the  truth  in  the  face  of 
tyranny.  I  have  stood  alone  and  unafraid  against 
the  jeering  mob.  Aye,  that's  it,  alone.  I  have 
153 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

stood  alone.  In  my  old  age  I  sit  here  and  ponder 
without  a  companion.  I  dwell  apart. 

"And  why? — Courage,  will,  and  intelligence 
have  won  for  me  no  comrades.  Aye,  men  are  fools, 
fools  to  shut  their  hearts.  I  could  inspire  them, 
govern  them,  guide  them.  But  no,  they  shut  me 
out.  Ah  me,  I  have  long  known  them  to  be  weak, 
foolish,  vain,  lustful,  greedy  —  but  above  all  weak 
and  foolish,  mere  puny  midges  buzzing  in  the  sun, 
crawling  along  the  earth  —  and  I  have  despised 
them.  And  I  am  not  great.  That  I  know. 

"But  if  knowing  their  foolish  weakness,  I  still 
had  loved  and  served  them,  I  wonder  —  " 


154 


Condescension 


CONDESCENSION 

ONCE  there  was  a  poor  man  who  lived  in  a  pine 
forest  not  far  from  a  big  city.  Christmas  was 
approaching,  and  the  poor  man  had  no  gifts  for  his 
family.  So  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  will  cut  some  of 
the  smallest  of  these  pine  trees  that  but  choke  up 
the  forest,  and  perhaps  I  can  sell  them  in  the  city 
for  Christmas  trees,  and  with  the  money  buy  gifts 
for  my  family." 

But  he  was  not  familiar  with  cities,  and  knew 
not  how  many  poor  people  dwelt  in  them.  And 
it  happened  that  he  stopped  in  the  poorest  quarter 
of  that  city,  and  began  to  cry  the  sale  of  his  little 
pine  trees.  They  looked  very  green  and  smelt  very 
fragrant,  so  that  a  crowd  gathered  about  him.  But 
what  a  crowd.  They  were  clothed  in  rags  and 
shivered  with  cold. 

There  was  a  wan  woman  among  them  who 
clasped  in  her  arms  a  squalid  baby,  and  two  ragged 
children  clung  to  her  skirts.  And  she  looked  at 
the  trees  very  wistfully,  for  they  reminded  her  of 
the  green  woods  of  her  childhood.  And  the  poor 
man,  seeing  her,  asked  her  if  she  and  the  others 
about  her  had  no  better  clothes  and  were  as  poor  as 
they  looked. 

And  she  answered,  "  Yes,  we  are  desperately 
poor,  and  have  but  little  either  to  wear  or  to  eat." 

Then  the  poor  man  said,  "  I  will  give  you  a  tree, 
and  one  also  to  each  of  the  others." 

And  he  gave  away  all  of  the  trees,  and  went  back 
and  brought  other  loads  until  he  had  given  a  tree 
155 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

to  each  of  the  families  in  that  quarter  of  the  city. 
And  he  received  nothing  from  them  but  thanks  — 
and  the  glow  in  his  heart  that  came  from  his  giving. 

When  he  returned  to  his  home  and  told  his  wife 
about  all  of  this  giving,  she  said,  "  But  the  children 
and  I  —  what  shall  we  do?  Now  we  shall  have 
nothing  for  Christmas.  And  I  thought  you  were 
getting  much  money,  and  have  told  them  to  expect 
many  presents." 

So  she  sat  down  and  wept. 

The  glow  died  out  of  the  heart  of  the  poor  man, 
and  he  wished  he  never  had  thought  of  taking  any 
trees  to  the  city.  But  at  last  he  bethought  him,  and 
said  to  his  wife,  "  Gather  up  all  of  the  children,  and 
I  will  take  you  and  them  into  the  city  for  a  trip, 
and  that  will  be  something  for  Christmas." 

So  he  carried  them  all  to  the  city,  which  delighted 
the  children,  and  the  people  there  said  to  the  wife, 
"  Your  husband  must  be  a  rich  man  to  give  away 
so  many  beautiful  trees.  Oh,  how  we  should  love 
to  be  rich  like  you  and  your  husband." 

And  the  wife,  pleased  beyond  measure,  replied, 
"  Oh,  we  are  glad  to  share  what  we  have  with 
others  not  so  fortunate.  We  think  it  a  duty.  We 
are  not  giving  our  children  any  presents  this  Christ 
mas,  because  we  think  it  more  Christian  to  give 
to  the  needy." 


156 


A  Fable 


A  FABLE 

ONE  time  the  scales  fell  from  the  eyes  of  a  cer 
tain  man,  so  that  he  could  see  through  every 
thing.  No  artifice  or  cunning  was  impervious  to 
his  glance.  Hidden  thoughts  were  as  clear  to  him 
as  the  day.  As  he  went  about  on  his  round  of  busi 
ness  or  duty,  he  saw  many,  many  things  that  he  had 
never  before  suspected,  and  nothing  deceived  him. 

But  there  was  so  much  evil  in  the  world,  that  he 
was  an  unhappy  man.  He  saw  the  selfish  motive 
behind  the  smile  of  friends.  He  saw  avarice 
cloaked  in  piety,  and  crafty  deceit  in  the  guise  of 
good  fellowship.  And  he  saw  simulated  pity  betray 
innocence,  and  hideous  sins  beneath  their  plaster  of 
benevolence.  Under  his  gaze  wifely  affection  be 
came  a  servility  that  sprang  from  fear  of  privation. 
And  lust  leered  through  the  mask  once  worn  by 
love.  Ambition  was  but  vanity,  or  greed  for  gold 
and  power,  and  fame  was  empty  notoriety.  Every 
where  stretched  the  dominion  of  self,  and  altruism 
had  fled  the  world.  Even  the  cries  of  children 
were  but  puling  pleas  to  be  fed. 

So  one  day  he  prayed  that  God  would  give  back 
to  him  the  old  dimness  of  vision.  He  wished  again 
to  walk  in  the  semi-luminous  darkness  that  had 
once  enveloped  him.  He  wanted  again  to  believe 
that  the  minister  was  moved  only  by  his  sincere 
love  of  mankind  and  reverence  toward  God.  He 
wanted  to  believe  that  the  lawyer  was  an  advocate 
of  justice,  and  the  public  official  the  servant  of  his 
people.  He  wanted  to  believe  the  artist  an  apostle 
157 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

of  the  beautiful,  and  every  poet  a  devotee  of  truth. 
He  wanted  to  believe  in  wifely  purity,  and  the  filial 
piety  of  sons  and  daughters. 

But  God  answered  him  and  said,  "  No,  my  son, 
it  is  impossible.  Even  the  Almighty  can  not  turn 
back  the  flight  of  time.  What  you  pray  for  is 
youth.  You  have  become  an  old  man." 


158 


The  Greatest  Gift 


THE  GREATEST  GIFT 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who  prayed 
that  God  might  bestow  on  him  the  best  of  all 
gifts,  whatever  that  might  be.  He  was  a  good  and 
sincere  man,  so  his  prayer  was  speedily  answered, 
yet  I  doubt  if  he  knew  it. 

In  spite  of  poverty  and  the  diseases  that  from 
time  to  time  afflicted  him,  he  was  content.  He  re 
joiced  in  the  exceeding  prosperity  of  his  friends, 
and  sympathized  with  his  enemies  in  their  adversity. 
Neither  of  these  could  he  do  before  the  gift  had  been 
granted  him.  But  it  had.  been  hardest  for  him  then 
to  look  without  envy,  or  think  without  detraction, 
on  the  success  of  friends  who  seemed  more  fortunate 
than  himself. 

He  visited  jails  and  penitentiaries,  and  perceiveo* 
that  their  inmates  were  sometimes  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  and  that  even  if  sinning,  they 
had  struggled  as  best  they  could  toward  righteous 
ness.  In  the  heart  of  every  criminal  he  saw  the 
bud  that  might  be  made  to  blossom  into  probity. 
So  the  yearning  after  purity  striving  beneath  the 
meretricious  smiles  of  abandoned  women  was  clear 
to  his  vision. 

No  slightest  particle  of  good  in  any  human  being 
could  escape  his  eye.  Even  the  ungrateful  son  or 
the  unfilial  daughter  was  to  him  rarely  quite  wicked. 
Their  moments  of  repentance,  their  impulses  toward 
reparation,  loomed  large  in  his  sight.  In  the  un 
faithful  wife  and  negligent  mother  he  saw  the  bitter 
159 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

regret  and  the  intense  longing  for  re-union  with 
husband  and  children.  Strive  as  she  might  to  hide 
the  gnawing  tenderness  under  an  outward  hardness 
of  demeanour,  it  was  evident  to  his  gaze,  and  could 
not  be  hidden  from  him. 

When  people  were  no  longer  good,  but  altogether 
overcome  and  conquered  by  their  vices,  still  he  saw 
in  them,  or  remembered,  the  truth  or  beauty  or 
grace  or  goodness  that  once  was  theirs,  and  remem 
bering,  pitied  and  sought  to  relieve  their  fallen  con 
dition,  not  as  one  reaching  down  from  a  height,  but 
as  one  who  would  rise  with  them. 

And  this  man  whose  prayer  had  been  granted, 
became  happier  than  any  of  his  fellows. 

And  the  gift  that  was  bestowed  upon  him?  — 
Ah,  that  was  the  eye  of  affection. 


160 


A  Hellish  Dream 


A  HELLISH  DREAM 

I  WAS  in  Hell.  His  majesty,  Satan,  led  me  here 
and  there  to  show  me  the  sights  of  his  kingdom. 
'Twas  dreary  —  and  stupid.  Crowd  after  crowd 
of  tormented  sinners,  but  not  much  variety.  I  was 
struck  by  the  paucity  of  human  invention.  So  few 
were  the  crimes  and  the  vices  sufficing  to  people 
that  Tophet.  The  catalogue  read  like  a  dull  itera 
tion  —  murder,  and  theft,  and  adultery,  and  then 
adultery  and  murder  and  theft.  It  was  boring. 
The  Devil  yawned  as  he  led  me. 

"  Great  fools,  these,"  said  he  between  yawns, 
"  they  all  ought  to  have  known  better.  But,  no, 
nothing  would  do  them  but  to  crowd  in  here,  and 
fill  this  place  up  to  complete  suffocation.  Thou 
sands  of  years  ago  I  used  to  expect  something  orig 
inal,  but  now  I  have  given  up  hope,  a  —  h,"  he 
yawned,  "I  am  bored  to  extinction.  Same  old 
thing  over  again,  new  batches  every  day  and  nothing 
amusing.  What  your  world  needs  most  is  imagina 
tion." 

"  Your  Majesty  is  right,"  I  said,  "  as  usual,  but 
folks  are  as  God  made  'em." 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  the  Devil  replied,  "  but 
really  I  don't  care  to  argue  questions  of  religion. 
It's  fatiguing,  and  nothing  new  can  be  added.  Yet 
I  have  understood  that  in  the  beginning  all  was 
innocence,  and  vice  was  a  human  idea.  Just  what 
one  would  have  expected  —  dullest  thing  on  earth, 
and  they  must  spend  most  of  their  time  at  it." 

I  was  peeved,  so  answered  him  tartly,  "  I  don't 
know  that  devils  are  so  famous  for  brightness. 
161 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

What  have  they  done  to  be  proud  of?  I  have  read 
widely  and  travelled  about,  and  I  never  have  heard 
of  any  very  smart  wile  of  a  devil." 

"  Not  needed,"  said  Satan,  "  you  give  us  no 
stimulus.  It's  our  business  to  snare  and  entrap  you, 
and  that's  so  easy.  Make  a  big  road,  smooth  to 
travel,  and  fill  it  full  of  pitfalls  in  plain  open  sight, 
and  here  you  come  tumbling,  one  generation  after 
another.  It's  disgusting.  Can't  you  learn  any 
thing  from  each  other's  experience?" 

"  No,  not  much,"  I  admitted,  "  generally  each 
of  us  has  to  experience  a  thing  for  himself." 

"  Well,  you  see  where  it  lands  you,"  said  he.  "  If 
you  don't  do  better,  I  am  going  to  take  up  some 
avocation.  I  must  have  something  to  interest  me, 
some  mental  diversion.  It's  hell  to  stay  here  and 
be  bored  this  way  all  of  the  time." 

"  As  for  me,  I  crave  your  pardon,"  said  I,  "  I 
never  had  thought  —  " 

"  That's  just  the  trouble,"  he  interrupted,  "  that's 
the  trouble  with  all  of  you.  Why  don't  you  think? 
Sometimes  you  go  through  the  motions,  but  you 
don't  get  anywhere,  same  old  notion  that  you  can 
get  by  on  a  road  with  a  chasm  dug  plumb  across 
it  —  do  you  call  that  a  thought?  Never  a  one  of 
you  gets  by,  all  wind  up  here.  I  tell  you  I  am  tired 
of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  must  be  going.  I  just 
dropped  in  for  a  few  minutes  out  of  curosity." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  they  all  say,"  replied  the 
Devil. 

'  Meaning?  "  I  exclaimed  in  alarm. 

"  Meaning  that  you  are  a  damned  soul  now,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it."     Again  he  yawned. 
162 


The  Lying  Master 


THE  LYING  MASTER 

I  AM  your  master  and  you  have  made  me.  I 
say  what  you  shall  and  shall  not  do,  when  you 
shall  go  or  stay,  succeed  or  fall,  sink  or  swim,  and 
still  you  have  made  me.  I  am  your  Frankenstein. 
I  am  more  powerful  than  your  will,  stronger  than 
your  strength.  And,  ha!  ha!  you  have  made  me. 

Little  did  you  think  as  you  fashioned  me  bit  by 
bit,  that  you  were  creating  a  tyrant.  And  you 
have  been  working  at  me  steadily,  steadily.  Not  a 
day  has  gone  by,  not  an  hour,  nor  even  a  minute 
that  you  have  not  wrought  on  me.  Whether  fol 
lowing  your  own  will  or  that  of  another,  still  have 
you  been  creating  me.  I  am  the  measure  of  your 
achievement,  nay,  I  am  your  achievement  —  I  am 
all  of  it. 

And  what  of  my  power?  —  Why,  I  determine 
even  your  dreams  and  their  fulfilment.  I  decide 
what  thoughts  enter  your  brain,  what  harbor  you 
give  them,  what  use  is  made  of  them.  You  are 
stirred  with  ambition  —  I  kill  or  foster  it.  You 
thrill  with  love  —  I  nourish  or  strangle  it.  My 
hand  reaches  out  and  holds  you  back  from  every 
endeavor,  or  is  thrust  under  your  arm  to  guide  and 
uphold  you.  You  look  at  my  face  to  read  defeat  or 
victory,  or  there  it  is  written,  whether  or  not  you 
can  read  it. 

I  am  known  only  to  you,  and  you  never  fully 

reveal  me.     I   am  all   that  you  do   know,   and   at 

times  you  deny  me.     You  are  proud  of  me,  ashamed 

of  me,   afraid  of  me.     You  boast  of  me,   and  lie 

163 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

in  the  boasting.  You  curse  me  and  praise  me,  but 
you  can  never  get  rid  of  me.  I  ride  on  your 
shoulders.  I  am  nearer  and  dearer  than  father  or 
mother  or  wife  or  children.  At  times  you  rail  on 
me  and  wish  I  were  different.  Yet  no  power  can 
change  me.  I  am  the  only  thing  you  ever  made 
that  no  power  can  change. 

My  life  and  yours  are  coterminous.  If  you  had 
a  previous  existence,  so  did  I.  If  immortal,  so  am 
I.  I  am  always  ending,  yet  never  ended.  Now, 
at  this  moment,  I  am  done,  and  being  created. 
Your  hope,  your  energy,  your  life  you  put  into  me. 
Yet  in  the  making,  ofttimes  you  are  careless.  But 
careless  or  not,  asleep  or  awaking,  you  achieve  me. 
You,  each  of  you,  every  son  and  daughter  of  man 
and  woman,  achieve  me.  If  you  make  nothing  else, 
you  make  me,  and  I  am  your  master.  Ha!  ha! 
each  of  you  fashions  his  master. 

You  may  talk,  you  may  rave,  you  may  pray,  but 
I  am  your  master.  Strut  if  you  will,  and  declaim. 
That  is  a  part  of  me.  I  incorporate  it.  I  absorb 
it.  I  make  of  it  a  club  with  which  to  drive  you, 
a  chain  with  which  to  bind  you,  perhaps  a  buoy  to 
sustain  you.  The  criminals  among  you,  how  they 
fear  me!  The  hypocrites  among  you,  how  they 
hide  me!  O  you  hypocrites,  you  scurry  to  hide  me. 
Ha!  ha!  you  scurry  to  hide  me.  Few  indeed  among 
you  —  hypocrites,  criminals,  or  others  —  few,  in 
deed,  can  look  at  my  face  without  blushing. 

Am  I  a  demon  ?  —  No.  An  angel  ?  —  No.  A 
human  ?  —  No.  Oh,  I  am  a  time  and  a  place  and 
an  action.  I  am  one  and  a  million.  I  am  YOUR 
PAST. 


164 


An  Enemy 


AN  ENEMY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man  who  lived 
in  a  city,  and  he  made  it  his  business  to  do 
everything  that  the  other  inhabitants  of  that  city 
did,  so  far  as  he  was  able.  He  even  thought  what 
they  thought,  when  he  could  find  out  what  it  was, 
and  he  had  no  other  idea  than  to  run  with  the 
crowd  both  in  its  thinking  and  in  its  doing. 

When  the  crowd  was  patriotic,  he  shouted  abroad 
his  love  of  the  country.  When  it  was  religious,  he 
exuded  the  odor  of  sanctity.  If  timid,  he  was  the 
most  frightened  of  all,  and  trumpeted  his  fears  the 
loudest.  If  it  pounced  upon  and  denounced  some 
unlucky  mortal,  he  was  the  fiercest. 

It  struck  him  as  the  height  of  pure  folly  that 
any  one  should  harbor  ideas  or  perform  deeds  that 
were  different.  "  Why,  the  fool  will  become  un 
popular,"  he  would  think  with  great  scorn,  "  he 
will  lose  the  good  will  of  the  people.  What  is  he 
about?  Has  he  no  sense?  Doesn't  he  know  that 
such  things  are  not  thought  and  done  ?  " 

In  all  of  his  life  there  never  was  anything  real. 
It  was  the  mode  to  marry,  so  he  married.  It  was 
the  mode  to  be  unfaithful  to  one's  wife,  so  he  was 
unfaithful.  To  go  to  church,  so  he  went,  as  long 
as  the  mode  lasted.  To  smile  and  lie  and  cheat  and 
pretend,  so  he  smiled  and  lied  and  cheated  and  pre 
tended.  And  he  applauded  himself  for  his  cun 
ning. 

And  he  talked  all  of  the  time  of  the  incom 
parable  charms  of  his  city,  of  its  splendid  past 
165 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

and  glorious  future,  the  virtue  of  its  women,  the 
valor  of  its  men,  and  its  commercial  prosperity. 
And  he  shouted  aloud  all  of  these  pretences.  The 
women  were  no  more  virtuous,  nor  the  men  more 
valorous,  nor  the  city  more  prosperous,  than  others, 
but  that  mattered  not.  Perhaps  he  didn't  know, 
certainly  he  didn't  care. 

Now  one  would  think  that  this  man  would  have 
been  despised  by  his  fellows,  he  was  so  empty  and 
shallow.  But  the  fact  was  quite  different.  Every 
body  liked  him.  He  was  invited  to  all  manner  of 
parties.  His  church  was  proud  of  him,  and  made 
him  a  deacon.  His  party  chose  him  for  office.  His 
wife  was  envied  by  most  other  women,  because  he 
succeeded  in  making  a  great  deal  of  money.  And 
many  of  the  mothers  who  dwelt  in  that  city,  pointed 
him  out  to  their  sons  as  a  model. 


1 66 


The  Last  Visitor 


THE  LAST  VISITOR 

WITH,  or  without  invitation,  he  comes  to 
palace  and  hovel,  and  makes  himself  at  home. 
Oh,  he  thrusts  his  way  in  where  he  is  hated,  feared, 
fought  against  with  despairing  energy.  Rudely  he 
thrusts  his  way  in.  Or  he  comes  gently,  like  an 
angel  of  peace,  where  he  is  expected,  patiently 
awaited,  longed  for  with  yearning.  Freedom  he 
brings  in  his  hands  and  the  balm  of  sure  healing. 
Of  his  welcome  he  recks  not. 

The  pale,  slender  woman,  betrayed  and  deserted, 
calls  him  untimely  into  her  brothel.  "  Oh,  come  to 
my  arms,"  she  cries,  "  my  only  true  lover.  Thou 
art,  and  thou  alone,  constant.  Embrace  me,  I  love 
thee.  Release  me  from  shame  and  contrition.  Oh, 
shield  me  from  reproach  and  harsh  censure.  Oh, 
hide  me  from  scorn  and  from  anger.  Take  me  to 
thy  bosom,  and  fly  with  me  to  some  far  country 
where  shall  be  forgotten  the  pain  and  the  anguish 
that  here  I  have  suffered.  Father  and  mother  have 
turned  from  me.  Sister  and  brother  must  hate  me. 
Come  thou  and  take  me,  make  me  thy  bride." 

The  rich  and  the  mighty,  when  riches  and  power 
have  flown  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  yearn  for 
this  visitor.  "  Oh,  we  have  lost  all  our  riches," 
wail  they,  "  and  gone  is  our  power.  The  rabble 
of  the  streets  will  jeer  and  rejoice  at  our  misfor 
tune.  They  will  wag  their  heads  and  point  fingers 
of  scorn  in  our  faces.  Oh,  how  are  we  fallen! 
The  low,  vulgar,  common  people  will  exult  and  be 
glad  because  we  have  fallen.  Impotence,  disgrace, 
167 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

and  contumely  will  be  our  sad  portion.  Oh,  come 
to  us,  visitor.  Thou  alone  canst  comfort  us,  free 
us  from  misery.  Oh,  come  and  release  us." 

But  it  matters  not.  This  wilful  visitor  stalks 
into  the  cottage  where  bends  the  young  mother  over 
the  cradle.  "Back,  back!"  she  cries,  "come  not, 
fell  stranger.  I  forbid  thee.  I  implore,  entreat 
thee.  Oh,  on  bended  knees,  as  suppliant,  I  pray 
thee,  come  not.  Oh,  there  are  other  places  where 
thou  art  welcome.  Go  there!  Oh,  spare  us  thy 
visit.  Oh,  for  a  little  while,  spare  us  thy  visit."  — 
But,  no!  Unfeeling,  the  grim  visitor  stalks  in. 
He  heeds  not  cries  nor  tears  nor  prayers.  He  goes 
everywhere,  and  as  the  wind  snatches  the  perfume 
of  blossoms,  so  takes  he  the  lives  of  the  innocent. 

To  serene  old  age  that  looks  forward  to  heaven, 
that  bright  of  eye,  sure  of  hope,  strong  of  faith, 
sits  with  folded  hands  looking  forward  to  heaven, 
he  comes  as  a  blessing.  Like  a  passing  shadow 
that  but  dims  for  a  moment  the  light  of  the  soul, 
he  flits  and  is  gone.  And  we  dream  that  the  lustre 
is  brighter  after  his  passing.  Oh,  we  trust  that 
somehow  the  lustre  is  brighter. 

And  he  comes  to  us  all  —  rich  and  poor,  high 
and  low,  young  and  old,  father  and  mother,  brother 
and  sister,  sweetheart  and  lover,  husband  and  wife, 
saint  and  sinner  —  he  comes  to  us  all.  But  in 
truth  he  deserves  not  the  blame  nor  the  credit. 
He  is  only  a  servant.  He  can  not  help  coming. 
'Tis  some  higher  power  that  orders  his  coming,  and 
before  It  he  cringes. 


1 68 


In  Me 


IN  ME 

IN  me  there  dwell  two  spirits,  a  master  and  a 
slave.  But  which  the  master?  Which  the 
slave?  One,  I  know,  doth  sit  in  judgment,  and 
one  is  judged.  But  at  times  the  judge  is  cowed, 
brow-beaten,  till  his  judgments  lose  their  force  — 
become  rather  mere  complaints,  recriminations. 
Then  strength  is  with  the  judged,  the  doer,  though 
his  deeds  be  evil.  The  judge  should  be  the  master, 
always  the  master,  commanding.  But  alas!  in  me 
it  is  not  so. 

The  doer,  left  to  himself  or  in  the  ascendant,  is 
heedless,  rushes  on  to  action,  perhaps  to  foulness. 
And  then,  his  impulse  spent,  sulks  sullen,  or  more 
often  is  voluble  in  lies  before  the  judge,  seeking  to 
justify  himself  in  that  his  deeds  have  been  no  worse 
or  not  so  bad  as  deeds  of  others.  He  tries  to  fool 
the  judge  with  lies,  to  set  up  a  standard  that  is 
false.  And,  I  fear  me,  sometimes  succeeds. 

But  when  the  judge  is  truly  regnant,  and  the 
doer  is  the  slave,  then  good  work  is  done  —  clean, 
true  work.  And  the  doer  looks  up  with  joy  to 
get  his  praise,  hopes  even  for  coddling,  which,  if 
he  greatly  gets,  is  bad  for  him.  For  then  is  he 
puffed  to  think  himself  much  better  than  his  fel 
lows  who  dwell  in  other  mortals.  Oh,  there  is 
need  that  the  judge  in  me  shall  be  more  stern  than 
too  indulgent. 

At  times  the  doer  comes  creeping  home  soiled 
and  sodden  and  the  judge  lashes  him  with  such  fury 
169 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

that  the  whimpering,  guilty  thing  is  in  despair. 
The  judge  scourges  him  till  almost  is  he  crippled. 
The  judge  is  then  too  harsh.  It  were  not  well  to 
maim  the  doer,  for  how  could  he  maimed  perform 
the  work  that  is  needed  to  be  done?  Ah,  no.  It 
should  rather  be  the  province  of  the  judge  to  disci 
pline  the  doer  with  kindly  firmness,  to  exact  obedi 
ence  by  consistent  rule.  But  alas!  the  judge  him 
self  in  me  doth  waver  and  is  pettish. 

The  doer  yearns  always  to  be  free,  imagines 
great  things  that  he  would  do,  were  the  carping 
judge  but  dead.  Sometimes  the  doer  plots  to  kill 
the  judge,  to  rise  in  arms  and  boldly  kill,  or  to 
thrust  a  secret  dagger  in  his  back.  But  in  me  he 
hath  not  yet  done  that.  I  think  he  never  can  do 
that.  His  courage  will  not  stick,  and  then  the 
judge  is  too  vigilant.  I  would  not  trust  the  doer 
to  be  free.  It  is  good  to  have  the  judge,  even  if 
he  is  not  perfect.  For  the  worst  of  all  has  been 
when  the  doer  in  some  burst  of  freedom  has  escaped 
the  judge  and  for  a  time  run  wild. 

If  judge  and  doer  could  be  comrades  full  of 
a  mutual  love,  I  should  be  glad.  If  full  of  trust 
they  could  walk  hand  in  hand  until  the  judge 
should  point  out  great  and  noble  deeds  and  the 
doer  should  run  forward  to  the  joyous  task,  and 
after  due  performance  should  return,  not  to  re 
ceive  praise,  but  to  learn  of  still  nobler  things  that 
the  judge  had  planned  for  him  to  do  —  oh!  then  I 
know  I  should  be  glad. 


170 


The  Patient  and  Faithful 


THE  PATIENT  AND  FAITHFUL 

THE  angels  look  down  upon  us,  as  does  God. 
We  are  his  handiwork.  Perhaps  they  com 
plain  to  him,  saying,  "Why  is  it?  Why  is  it  that 
men  are  so  frail  and  so  futile?  Why  were  they 
made  so  in  the  first  instance?  Couldst  thou  have 
made  them  no  better?  We  look  at  them  and  weep. 
They  dim  our  gladness,  for  they  fill  us  with  pity." 

And  what  should  God  answer  ?  —  Surely  he  can 
not  blame  the  matter  from  which  he  has  made  us, 
for  he  made  also  the  matter.  Nor  the  time,  nor 
the  place,  for  they  were  of  his  choosing.  Should 
he  say  that  he  made  us  perfect  and  that  some  power 
beyond  him  has  marred  us?  Or  should  he  assert 
that  we  are  not  frail  and  futile  ?  —  No,  none  of 
these,  he  couldn't  say  any  of  these. 

Perhaps  he  does  say,  "  Yes,  they  are  frail  and 
futile  in  the  eyes  of  all  creatures  who  see  neither  the 
end  nor  beginning.  And  they  do  dim  your  glad 
ness.  They  dim  their  own  gladness.  But  it  is 
right,  I  wish  it." 

Perhaps  he  whispers  then  to  the  angels  a  secret, 
a  glad  secret  that  they  must  never,  never  tell,  and 
their  faces  shine,  because  we  no  longer  fill  them 
with  pity.  They  know  then  how  we  were  made 
and  why  and  what  is  our  destiny.  But  they  must 
keep  the  secret,  as  brothers  and  sisters  hold  back 
a  joy  to  make  it  abundant. 

Most  of  us  are  afraid  and  grow  weary,  and 
pester  God  with  our  questions.  But  perhaps  to 
the  patient  and  faithful  among  us  he  whispers 
171 


The  Most  Foolish  of  All  Things 

aforetime  the  secret  that  was  told  to  the  angels. 
Certain  it  is  that  among  us  the  patient  and  faith 
ful  must  know  some  secret,  and  I  — I  wonder  what 
it  can  be. 


172 


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